Tears of Red and Blue
by SignorinaSickfic
Summary: Monroe and Rosalee are starting to fall for one another. When Monroe contracts a rare Blutbaden-related disease, his new apothecary girlfriend is there to care for him. But just how serious is this sickness? Rated for safety. Monrosalee all the way!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Hello, wonderful readers and lovely Grimmlins. This is a story I've had in my mind for a while now and I've been working on it feverishly so as to keep it relatively accurate to the show. After what happened last night, I feel like I needed to get this out on the web for all you Monrosalee supporters. does not yet have Rosalee listed as a character, so until they do, I will only have this tagged for Monroe.**

**I apologize for the brevity. Longer chapters will come. I just wanted to set up the action!**

**Spoilers: Let's see now, if you haven't seen "The Three Bad Wolves," or the last two episodes ("The Island of Dreams" and "The Thing with Feathers"), you may not want to read.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Grimm. I just absolutely love it.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 1<strong>

Monroe could not stand it any longer. He reached over for the phone. This was a bad idea, a horrible idea. This was the kind of thing that Blutbaden just didn't do. But when had he ever been a conventional Blutbad exactly? His hands trembled as he picked up the piece of paper with the 10-digit number he had traced onto the buttons of his phone numerous times in the last few days but had never actually gathered the courage to call. This time, however, was different. He could wait no longer.

His palms began to sweat in a way that had only ever happened one other time with Angelina. But she was not to return, and Monroe was almost positive he had moved on. His heart pounded as he dialed the well-rehearsed number and waited for a response on the other end.

"Hello?" The soft musical voice from the other end said.

"Rosalee?" Monroe asked.

"Yes?" The fuchsbau said uncertainly.

"It…It's me, Monroe," he said, and felt incredibly stupid afterwards. She could probably recognize his voice.

"Hello!" She said, startled. She had not been expecting to hear from her Blutbad friend. "How are you?"

"I'm great, actually," Monroe said. "How's the… how's the apothecary business going?" There came from the other end a laugh not unlike the tinkling of a bell.

"No different than it was two days ago," she quipped. "It's going pretty slow, but it's steady, so I can't complain."

"That's great!" Monroe said, flushing at her joke. It was true they had last met only two days previously – which was when they had exchanged numbers – but he couldn't help it; the fuchsbau had somehow invaded his mind and heart, and he was powerless against her. He gathered up all his courage. He had to do this now, before his heart exploded within his chest. "Hey, I was wondering, I mean, if you're not busy, if you'd like to… have dinner with me?" There was a silence on the other end. Monroe cringed, expecting the worst.

"When?" Rosalee asked after a pause. The smile in her voice was unmistakable. She would be lying if she had said that this was unexpected, and also if she were to say she didn't have any desire to spend extra time with Monroe. Something had changed within her when he had come and spent the night with her at her brother's old place to protect her, something that had started from the second he'd laid his hand in hers and greeted her the first time, "I knew your brother." Clearly, Freddie had a good taste in friends. And this feeling within had been growing ever since he had been helping her with the shop.

"How… How does tomorrow at seven sound?" He asked softly, smiling broader than he ever had before. He could hardly contain himself.

"That sounds great, Monroe," she said. "Do you want me to meet you there?"

"There's no need," he said, finding his courage at last. "I'll come pick you up."

"Great," she said breathlessly. "Perfect. Thanks. So… see you… at seven…."

"See you then," Monroe said. A click on the other end told him the fuchsbau had hung up.

With that finally done and done correctly, Monroe flopped down on his couch with a contented sigh. He hadn't loved anybody like this since Angelina, and he wasn't sure how to do so correctly. He had heard of Blutbad/Fuchsbau couples before, but he knew it was pretty rare for it to work out. Fuchsbau were naturally crafty, sly, and conniving, while also somehow at the same time sweet and genuine – what you saw was usually what you got. They tended to be naturalists and introverts. Blutbaden were naturally charismatic, fighters, forever searching for blood, forever acting on violent impulses. They tended to love carnage and conflicts and be best suited for fights. They were harder to deal with, more into war than peace, and much more extroverted. But oftentimes people loved to say that opposites attracted, and Monroe was determined to win Rosalee's heart. She was kind and gentle, just as he was trying to be to avoid relapse into Blutbaden ways.

Suddenly, the phone rang again, startling him out of his reverie. He picked it up without bothering to check the caller I.D.

"Hello?" He asked.

"Hey, Monroe," said a very relieved Nick. "Hey, what's up?"

"Not much," Monroe said, hesitating. He didn't know if he should tell his friend what he had done. "Why? Did you find more Wesen?"

"No, not yet," Nick said. "Actually, I just really wanted to thank you. You were great at the drug bust… and even before that with Sgt. Wu and Rosalee."

"Oh, uh… no problem," Monroe said awkwardly, unused to such compliments. "It was my pleasure."

"Well, I still feel like I owe you one," Nick said. "I know it's not a fair trade for endangering your life, but I want to buy you a beer. How does tomorrow night sound? Juliette will be working late and we can just share a few drinks as partners and talk about completely un-Grimm-related stuff. What do you say?"

"Gee, Nick," Monroe said, touched. Clearly, the Grimm did value him as a friend, more than he previously thought. "I would love to. Can it be tonight though? I sort of have something going on tomorrow."

"I can't tonight," Nick said apologetically. "I have a date with Juliette. What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Oh, well, just…," Monroe faltered. How could he answer that? He racked his brain and quickly came up with a way to say it. "I'm… going to dinner… with a friend." Silence ensued.

"Monroe?" Nick asked slyly, and the Blutbad was sure he was caught. "Did you ask-"

"Okay, fine," he confessed quickly. "Yes, I asked Rosalee." Nick was not at all surprised. The two had clearly hit it off in the last few days, and he was, if anything, proud of his friend for making a move.

"You asked… oh, wow, that's… that's great, Monroe!" He exclaimed supportively. "We can go grab a beer some other time."

"Well, thanks," Monroe said, blushing and eternally grateful the Grimm couldn't see. "Yeah, that would be great. Just… give me a call sometime this weekend."

"Alright," Nick said, smiling. "Take care. Call me later, alright? Congrats!"

"Okay," Monroe said. "Thanks. Bye." He hung up and tried to tell his newly pounding heart to calm down. It was just dinner, nothing crazy. But even in his head it didn't work; he knew it was something more, much more. He remembered the way Rosalee had looked at him when they had last met. That couldn't be "nothing." In fact, that had to be a very substantial something.

She was the most beautiful and valuable thing in his world at the present, and he was sure he was ready to take it to a whole new level with her. One thing was for sure, he thought: tomorrow could not come fast enough.

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><p><strong>AN: Well, I think this sets things up nicely. I'd love to hear what you thought thus far. Reviews are lovely and are always appreciated. Thanks for reading, and much more to come soon!**

**Ciao for now!**

**~PG22**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Hi everyone! So I had a few problems and a lot of stuff happening this week, which is why this update is so late, but in honor of the fact that MonRosalee seems official at this point, (thank you, writers!) I wanted to put this next part out. The flashback is one of my favorite things I've written in a long time, so I do hope you enjoy that part. Thanks for all your reviews: I'm impressed at how well this story took off at first. I didn't expect such a response, but it's good to know I'm not the only one who ships MonRosalee!**

**Disclaimer: As much as I would like to, I don't own Grimm. If I did, I'd be writing episodes that feature these two quite more than is necessary!**

**Enjoy, my Grimmlins!**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 2<strong>

The next day dragged on, and Monroe was a bundle of adrenaline-spiked nerves by the time seven slowly rolled around. He pulled up to Rosalee's house in his vintage yellow bug and was positively shaking once he cut the engine. He didn't understand why he was so jumpy. She clearly wanted to spend time with him – she had accepted his offer after all. He couldn't deny he really hoped there was something there between the two of them. He thought about the last time they had met at the shop a long three days ago.

"_Monroe, hi!" An astonished and pleasantly surprised Rosalee exclaimed when Monroe entered the shop unexpectedly. She came around from the counter and enfolded him in a hug. "I've missed you," she whispered in his ear. Monroe blushed deep red and smiled._

"_I've missed you, too," he said. Pulling away, he held out a small rose. Rosalee smiled and laughed aloud._

"_I guess flowers are your thing, huh?" She asked, taking the rose and putting it up to her nose, taking in a long, indulgent sniff. She closed her eyes and relished the aroma, her shoulders slowly slackening as she exhaled. "Beautiful," she breathed. _

"_I saw it in a florist window on the way over," he confessed. "It sort of reminded me of you." He blushed and scolded himself mentally for sounding like such a lovesick puppy. Rosalee giggled._

"_It's wonderful," she assured him. "Thank you so much." She smiled appreciatively at him. "I'm sorry, I never have anything to give to you," she admitted. "I'm not sure what you would like."_

"_Please," Monroe said, "just putting up with me is a gift enough." They both laughed. Rosalee set the rose in a small vase on the counter and filled it halfway with water._

"_So what brings you up here?" She asks shyly._

"_Oh… nothing," Monroe mumbled, his eyes down. He didn't know how exactly to phrase his answer. "I just… wanted to see how things were going… with the shop and all."_

"_Well that was very sweet of you," Rosalee said, and Monroe lit up with the joy of knowing he had played this one right. "The shop is going excellently actually. I couldn't be happier." _

"_Well good," he said. "I'm glad. And I'm glad you stayed in Portland."_

"_I am too," she admitted. They had gotten so close at this point that Rosalee was pressed against the counter with her hands clutching the lip, and Monroe was right before her._

"_Can… can I call you sometime?" He asked her nervously. She grinned._

"_Sure," she said, turning from him and clumsily ripping off a piece of paper from the pad on the counter. She pulled a pen from the pen holder, knocking the whole container over in the process. She blushed and bent over to get it, but Monroe was already there scooping up the scattered writing instruments and gathering them back into the pen holder._

"_Thank you," she said, sounding flustered. Monroe smiled. _

"_No problem," he said easily, setting the container back on the counter. Rosalee quickly scribbled her phone number on one half of the paper, ripped it in half, and handed both pieces and the pen to him. He silently scribbled down his own number and handed it to her along with the pen, folding hers and sticking it carefully in his sweater pocket._

"_So yeah," she said, feeling awkward as she did the same with his number. "Call me whenever."_

"_Great!" He exclaimed, a little too enthusiastically. She raised her eyebrows at him but said nothing._

"_Is there anything I can get you, or will that be it?" She asked._

"_Nah," he said. "I don't really need any of this stuff. You know perfectly well Blutbaden don't usually get sick. Or do drugs." She smiled._

"_Yes, I do know," she said. They looked at each other a long moment._

"_You… you want to take a walk or something?" Monroe asked finally. Rosalee cocked her head irresistibly._

"_You know what?" She asked, switching the open sign in the window off. "Actually, I do."_

What had followed had been the main event of Monroe's best day ever. This was one of his favorite memories, and he reflected on it as he walked up the driveway and to her door. The scent of spring hung in the air, and the sun was slowly setting, casting warmth upon him. It would surely be dark by the time they left the restaurant, but it would be okay. Monroe tended to like and retreat to the cover of darkness.

He was trembling, and he felt his face was already hot, which was the most annoying thing. He didn't want to be blushing already. His face would take on a permanent shade of red! His palms sweated worse than ever, and his stomach was wobbling with butterflies. He bit his lip. His vision was off too, which he had no explanation for. He hoped he wasn't losing his nerve. That would be bad. Before anything else could happen, he gathered up his courage and rang the bell.

Rosalee stepped out a moment later, looking – as Monroe's mind put it – positively stunning. The fuchsbau wore a short, red cocktail dress with black shoes sporting heels so high she was almost taller than her "date." But only almost. She had a sweater draped over her arm in case she got cold, and her face lit up at the sight of Monroe.

"Hi!" She cried, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. All his trepidation and fear melted away and he hugged her back, realizing for the first time that maybe they felt the same way about one another. Perhaps she actually felt for him what he had been feeling for her since they'd met.

"Hey there," Monroe said. She pulled back, holding him at arm's length by the shoulder.

"You look fantastic," she said, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe it.

"Thanks," he said. "You don't look too bad yourself."

"Do you want to come in and grab a beer or something?" She asked him. He shook his head easily.

"No, I'm fine," he said. "Thank you." She smiled.

"Okay," she said, taking his arm. "Shall we then?" Monroe's face became redder and hotter, if that was even possible. He stuttered incoherently for a second before scrapping the idea of a response and just leading her to the car. He held the door for her like a true gentleman, and then got in and began to back out of the driveway.

"So how are things?" Rosalee asked.

"With me?" Monroe asked, his hands shaking even on the steering wheel. His fingers had gone numb with cold, which was absurd for such a warm spring day.

"No, Monroe, with the car," she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes and shoving his arm playfully. "Yes with you."

"Oh," he said, his heart taking off. He was smitten. This was a decidedly bad thing. "Well, things are good."

"Mmm?" She asked, her eyes asking him for more. "Are you still working with the Grimm?"

"Yeah," he said, as if it was a confession. "Nick still calls me for any Wesen related things. But it's all good. Nick's a good guy."

"I know," Rosalee said. "I'm glad he solved my brother's murder, and I'm forever indebted to him. But he's got to be the most incompetent Grimm I've ever met." Monroe laughed.

"He's still learning the ropes, that's for sure," he joked.

"But did you see how well he delivered that egg for the Seltenvögel?" Rosalee continued. "That actually can't be classified as learning." Monroe nodded contemplatively. He really liked the way she found the good in others, he mused.

"So what else is new?" Monroe asked.

"Not much," Rosalee sighed. "To be honest, it's just the humdrum routine of daily life. But it's stability, and I do happen to like it."

"Well stability and ritual can be a good thing," Monroe said. "I mean, without one, you know what I might turn into."

"I know," Rosalee said, touching his arm. "A bloodthirsty killer. But you would never relapse, Monroe. You're too good for that."

"Well thanks," he said, blushing deeply. Rosalee noticed how his face turned red at every compliment she fired at him. Perhaps he was unused to such words. Blutbaden did not often hear compliments. Pack members did not usually say kind words to one another, as that apparently showed that the giver of compliments was weak. Rosalee hated this notion. If finding the good in others made people weak, then she must have been one of the weakest of all.

"So how was your day?" Rosalee asked. She desperately wanted to get into a deeper topic with him, but she didn't know how to start it off so it wouldn't be awkward.

"It was good," Monroe said, lying through his teeth. Truth be told, he had been worrying the whole day, and he'd accomplished little to nothing all day. He was jumpy and nervous, because his plan was to finally tell her how he felt about her: he was in love with her. "How was yours?"

"Eh," she said, shrugging. "You know. It was pretty boring, but I was excited for tonight, so that got me through." Monroe smiled.

"You really were excited for tonight?" He asked.

"Of course," she said. "I've been missing you. I'm really glad you called yesterday."

"Yeah," Monroe said thoughtfully, realizing for the first time that maybe saying what was on his mind wouldn't be so hard after all. "I'm glad too."

Monroe pulled into a spot at the restaurant. Cutting the engine, he turned toward her.

"Rosalee, I want to ask you something," he said, just as he'd rehearsed a thousand times in his head earlier in the day.

"Okay," she said uneasily. "Go ahead." With him facing her, she saw him full-on for the first time that night, and she noticed he looked different. His eyes were ringed with faint shadows, and they were bloodshot, which she'd never seen happen to him before. He was also sweating like crazy. She wondered if it had something to do with the date. Perhaps he was nervous like her and was showing outward signs of it.

"I've been wondering," he said, pulling her from her reverie, "what exactly are we?" She hesitated. Thoughts of his nervousness flew away in that instant. She'd been giving that a lot of thought recently as well, and she had no idea what the proper term for them currently was. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again and creased her brow in confusion, suddenly realizing that she really didn't have a name for what they were. In the back of her mind, she mused, _there really needs to be a name for that place between "dating" and "just friends."_ But then she wondered if they were really still "just friends" anymore. She had accepted an invitation for a date. And he had extended one. Maybe they should both stop skirting around the issue, stop being afraid of love, and embrace it wholeheartedly.

"See, I feel the same way," he said, referencing her lack of a response. "I just don't know what to call… this." Rosalee thought her response over carefully in her head before she spoke.

"I think…," she said cautiously. "I think… I think in my head I've just been considering you a friend. But I just feel like… there's something more…."

"Me too," Monroe said immediately.

"Maybe," Rosalee said, still carefully choosing her words. "We should start calling it 'dating.'" After all, this was a "date," right?

"I would like that," Monroe said, beaming. "I really care about you, Rose." She grinned.

"'Rose?'" She asked. "We just now decide to start dating and you already have my endearing petname picked out?" He shrugged, a silly little smile on his face.

"Now I can use it," he murmured. Rosalee laughed out loud. She peered up at him from behind her curtains of long hair and smiled slightly. She realized just how much she had come to care for the Blutbad since they first met and she'd saved his life. She was ready for a relationship with him. She gently took his hand in hers and squeezed it.

"As long as you don't call me vixen," she joked. Then, she let go of his hand and undid her seatbelt. "Let's go," she said softly.

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><p><strong>AN: So yeah, in case you didn't know, "fuchsbau" is German for "fox den," which I suppose means Rosalee is a fox, hence her last quip. (Blutbad is German for carnage, so... It feels like _Fox and the Hound_ to me!)**

**I hope you all liked this! More to come soon! As always, reviews are appreciated and wonderful, and also helpful. Thanks to all who have shown their support already - I am quite grateful!**

**Ciao for now!**

**~PG22**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hey everyone! Happy Cinco de Mayo! So my drive to write has been gone for a little while, and I've had some serious writer's block, so I know I've been neglecting to write much of anything recently. I still have other stories that need updating (I can practically see the cobwebs growing on them) but the fact that I have not seen Rosalee on Grimm in 2 weeks pressed me into continuing this. I'm happy about all the good things I've received in regards to this story, and they even added Rosalee to the character list (though it's spelled wrong...)**

**Thanks for all your wonderful reviews! I love hearing from all of you. I will be writing for you as long as I have an audience to write to.**

**I'll give an advanced warning here, but soon this fic is going to get really angsty. I had a vision of some really deep and dark things for this. I want to delve into Monroe's (bad) past as the show has very much neglected to do. (Besides Angelina, Hap, and being "done with the bad thing" of course.) So there will be a lot of drama coming very soon as this mystery disease begins to run its course.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Grimm. I just enjoy it.**

**Please Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 3<strong>

The date started off without a hitch, but quickly took a turn for the worst. Monroe didn't know why he was still feeling off. They had decided to start dating. He didn't need to be nervous anymore. In fact, in the back of his mind, it registered that he should be euphoric. But still, his stomach was fluttering, he was sweating up a storm, and his head felt light. A strange sense of detachment from reality had set in. He wasn't sure if this really was euphoria, or something else. They had gotten seated and through drinks and appetizers, along with a lot of petty conversation, before Rosalee noticed something wrong. Monroe had just finished telling her about his friend Hap and what had happened, carefully omitting the part about Angelina. He didn't think that was a good idea on a first date.

Since he had started talking, Rosalee's mind had been elsewhere. Though her eyes followed every move of his lips, her brain registered that something was clearly off. Monroe looked exhausted, she realized. And he had not stopped blushing since they had arrived. His face under the obvious flush was a ghostly pale. His voice was rougher and raspier than she was used to. Suddenly, it hit her; she realized he probably was sick – it was the only logical explanation for the way he looked.

"It still sort of hurts to think about him," Monroe admitted, pulling Rosalee from her reverie. "But I'm grateful Nick found the guy who did it. At least there's some justice there."

"Monroe?" She asked gently, yet abruptly, cutting him off. "Are you okay?" Monroe's look of surprise quickly changed to one of horror, then quickly to one of ease.

"Yeah!" Monroe said, a little too enthusiastically she noted. "Never better. Why?"

"You… you don't look well," she said worriedly. "Maybe we should go back."

"I'm fine, Rose," he said easily with his winning smirk. Rosalee didn't look too convinced; she didn't feel very convinced either. It looked like it was taking all his effort and willpower not to topple over, and he was unusually jumpy, shaky, and flushed. She reached across the white-clothed table and took his cold hand into hers.

"No you're not," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm an apothecary, Monroe. I can tell. And you're starting to worry me."

"I swear," Monroe said, clasping her hand between both of his and staring intently into her eyes, "I'm fine." She countered his stare by looking deeply into his eyes; she saw that they were bloodshot, glassy, and tired-looking. She was almost to the point of believing him when she felt him trembling slightly. She stood up abruptly, causing a few heads to turn.

"Monroe, no you're not!" She said. She didn't want to raise a din, but she would not let him sit here suffering and downplay it. She tugged at his hand. "Come on, I'm taking you home. Now." Her voice took on a sort of motherly tone and she stared him down until he finally stood.

"Rose, this is unnecessary-" he began, but suddenly started to sway. Standing had made him incredibly dizzy and disoriented. He pressed a hand to his eyes. "Okay, maybe it is… necessary." Rosalee only grimaced anxiously.

"Come on," she said urgently, lowering her voice as the disturbed diners went back to their own conversations but continued to steal glances at them out of the corners of their eyes. Rosalee couldn't help feeling annoyance at this. Had they never seen someone sick before? But she swallowed her frustration and said, "Let me take you home." Within minutes, they had paid their check (even in his condition, he had insisted on paying) and made it unsteadily to Monroe's car with Rosalee half-supporting, half-carrying him. He had taken out his keys and was unlocking the door when she gently tugged them from his fumbling hands. He looked up at her in alarm.

"You're in no condition to drive," she said, ushering him to the passenger's seat of the tiny VW. "I'll take care of this." Within minutes, they were speeding toward Monroe's house. The pace she was going was making Monroe sick to his stomach, though he didn't want to admit it, as doing so would mean he'd have to admit he was sick, which he was still convinced he was not. He clenched his jaw, steeled his nerves, and looked at the floor of the car to keep from vomiting.

"Monroe, why didn't you tell me you were sick?" Rosalee demanded, pushing the speed limit as she glanced at the sick man. Her heart clenched up in a weird way, but she ignored it and pushed on.

"I didn't know I was," Monroe said. It wasn't a total lie. He only knew he'd been feeling strange the whole day, not that it was to do with being sick. He hoped Rosalee was mistaken.

"Monroe, don't lie to me," Rosalie said in exasperation. "I know how Blutbaden are. Tough as nails, bloody, strong. The biggest concern has always been brute strength. Sickness has always been a sign of weakness for you. I can't tell you how many Blutbaden would come into my parents' shop in secret and completely alone when I was growing up."

"But I never… never get sick," Monroe protested weakly. Already he was beginning to feel the effects of what he was denying to be an illness. She glanced over at him nervously, noticing how faint and hoarse his voice was becoming.

"I know," she said. "I've heard it all before."

"But it's true," he said, feigning earnest. "I can't remember the last time I was sick." He knew this one was a total lie, and he hated himself for it. How could they have a relationship if he was going to keep lying to her like this? But admitting he was sick, admitting that he had been this ill before, admitting that he was scared, and admitting he was in need of help would force him to have to face down his demons, which he really didn't want to do. Besides, asking for help was weak. He was not weak.

"And you probably still regard it as weakness as well, yes?" She asked. He jolted and stiffened, wondering how she'd read his mind like that. "Tell me the truth, Monroe. Were you worried I would think you were weak?" Though her eyes were trained on the stretch of open, artificially lit road ahead, she could not mistake how tense his body got beside her, and she knew without a doubt she had hit a nerve. He didn't answer. Rosalee risked taking her eyes from the road to look over at him. Sure enough, his eyes were downcast. He was staring at his hands resting in his lap. His face betrayed him by flushing still redder at her words. It was a silly thing really, she thought, just a stupid Blutbaden misconception. But she couldn't help feeling horrible for the poor man.

"Oh, Monroe," she whispered sympathetically, savoring the sweet taste of his name on her lips. She wondered if she had taken it too far now. She hadn't meant to hurt him, only get him to tell her the truth. She realized how cruel of her it was to have pried like that. It wasn't his fault this is how all Blutbaden were trained. Before she could attempt to take it back, however, Monroe spoke.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, still not looking up. "It's just something I've had drilled into my head for years. I didn't mean to offend or lie to you." He felt awful. He didn't want to lie to her anymore, didn't want to make her angry. She was worth the world to him. She let his words hang in the air for just a second before placing a tender hand on his upper arm.

"Can I tell you a secret?" She asked tentatively.

"What's that?" Monroe asked.

"From what I've learned from my parents, those who are considered 'weak' because they battle some sort of illness are actually the strong ones." To Monroe's puzzled look, she pressed on in response, "For example, any Blutbad who gets sick frequently has to learn how to overcome illness. Even though they are perceived as weak, they are stronger than those who never get sick. Because the 'strong' have never really fought against a Blutbaden illness. They've never endured the severe pain Blutbaden illnesses inflict." She patted Monroe's hand affectionately. "You're tough, Monroe. But it's okay to ask for help when you need it."

"Rosalee, it's nothing," he said with an exasperated sigh. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Do you feel fine?" Rosalee asked bluntly. "And don't lie to me. At this moment, do you feel fine?" Silence ensued. Rosalee dared to pull her eyes from the darkened road once more and stole a glance at Monroe. He was once again staring intently and rather guiltily at his hands as if they were the most interesting objects on Earth.

"No," he finally murmured in a voice so soft Rosalee almost didn't hear. She sighed to finally hear him admit it.

"Okay," she said. "That's what I thought. Let me take care of you, then." He offered no further protests, but no assents either. Out of the corner of her eye, Rosalee saw him rest his head against the window and close his eyes in either frustration or pain. She couldn't believe she'd actually managed to get a Blutbad to back down. Apparently, neither could Monroe, because he offered yet another feeble attempt at downplaying his illness.

"It's probably just a cold," he rationalized. For the first time since she'd found out he was ill, Rosalee smiled slightly.

"Monroe," she said in minor annoyance. "People with 'just a cold' are not sweating as much as you are right now." He bit his lip, knowing he was out of options and that the fuchsbau was not going to back off and leave him alone to deal with his illness the way normal Blutbaden would have to. He didn't want to tell her what was really bothering him, the other reason he was playing at being macho. It had nothing to do with being called "weak," not anymore anyway. It had to do with the last time he had been ill. He still had nightmares about it, even though he was an adult now. In his mind's eye, he pictured the blood spurting from the open, uncovered blisters on his bare chest, mixing with his bitter, salty tears so that all he saw was red, warm liquid all around him; his parents were nowhere in sight, and he was all alone with an excruciating pain in his chest and head, and the sounds of his own terrified, hallucination-induced screams resonating in his pounding eardrums, as the giant blue eyes of a small frightened child locked onto his….

He shuddered at the memory, blocking it from his head. He was terrified of ever feeling that way again. There were real terrors in his past, and he was not ready to face them again, especially not in front of Rosalee.

Finally, Rosalee pulled up to his house and cut the engine. She looked worriedly over at Monroe, who had been silent the whole rest of the way. He was still in his same position, leaning against the door with his forehead pressed up against the cool glass of the window. He looked physically exhausted.

"C'mon, let's get you inside," Rosalee said worriedly, getting out of the car and coming around to the passenger's side. Monroe ungracefully slid out of the car, shutting the door and instinctively gripping Rosalee tightly for support as an intense wave of vertigo washed over him. She supported him to the door and inside the house.

"Go get comfortable," she urged. Monroe then realized the reality of the situation: they were supposed to be on a date, and now Rosalee was going to be forced to play nursemaid to him.

"Rosalee, I don't want to ruin your night…," he said, feeling like kicking himself for getting sick at such a terrible time. He'd send her home, he decided, and let her have a good night without having to deal with him.

"Shush," Rosalee said lovingly, squeezing his hand. "Go change and lie down, Monroe. It's alright. Things happen." He couldn't believe how lucky he was to have someone like her around, to have someone like her as his… girlfriend. The word lingered in his hazy mind. He thought about protesting further and carrying out his plan to send her home, but suddenly, he couldn't bring himself to speak the words. She let go of his hand, and he stumbled off to his room, only about half-conscious.

After a suitable interval and once she didn't hear any more crashing around from inside, Rosalee tentatively knocked on the bedroom door with a glass of cold water in hand.

"Come in," Monroe called weakly. She entered the darkened room and found Monroe curled up under the covers, shaking like a leaf with chills. His face was pale and soaked in sweat as if the little effort it had taken him to change had completely drained him of strength. His eyes were closed and a stray lock of hair had fallen into his eyes. She gasped at how vulnerable and sick he looked. Setting the water on the bedside table and stepping over to the side of the bed carefully, she gently tucked the hair back behind his ear. She then placed a tender hand on his forehead. The touch caused him to just barely open his eyes, and he whimpered ever so softly before he had the chance to contain it. The skin under her hand was damp and sticky as a midsummer's day, she realized, and about as hot as the desert sun at noon.

"Monroe, you're burning up!" She exclaimed. He barely registered her obvious alarm and worry. He swallowed hard, feeling like he was sending a white-hot knife down his throat.

"Rose," he croaked miserably, but was unable to say much else. He put his hand over hers where it rested on the bed and shivered spastically. His eyes completely closed again. He wanted to say he was fine, that he would be okay, but he couldn't lie to her anymore. He couldn't make his mouth form the words besides. He was feeling utterly miserable and wanted more than anything for the agony to stop.

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><p><strong>AN: So that's it for now, my lovely Grimmlins. More will be on the way... sometime! Haha. Between homework, studying for finals and finals and everything, I might not get back to it before the end of the school year. :( But I'll do my very best. In the meantime, please leave me a review! I'd love to hear what you all think and your comments always inspire me to continue writing!**

**Ciao for now!**

**~PG22**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hello again, my dearest Grimmlins! I am back for yet another installment of "Tears of Red and Blue!" I am feeling a tad under the weather, and you know what that means: someone has to suffer with me! So who better than Monroe? :D**

**I am feeling quite Rosalee-deprived recently. Any ideas as to why they wiped her out of the show the last three episodes? And what was that, where they hinted at Monroe's past and that he still gets bad urges, but all we know is he thinks we "don't want to hear about his life?" I don't even think so! I'd love to know what Monroe did in his past life. But if the show won't tell me, then you can all rest assured I'm going to put my own spin on it in the next few chapters. I have the greatest ideas. He doesn't seem entirely evil, but he seems like whatever he did might still haunt him, so stay tuned for that!**

**Thank you for all the fantastic reviews! They are always very appreciated. I don't have time to respond to all of you, but if I could, the message would essentially be the same: you all are great readers, and I'm so glad I have an audience like you to write to!**

**So what sort of disease does Monroe have? Is it human or Blutbaden? Let's find out, shall we? I have something very specific in mind! XD**

**Disclaimer: Much to my disdain, I do not own Grimm.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 4:<strong>

"Shh," Rosalee said, gently fingering his damp, sweat-soaked bangs. "Relax. It's gonna be okay." She didn't have the slightest clue as to what exactly Monroe had, but one thing was for sure: he was undeniably sick, and not with something simple like flu. This had to be something worse, something Blutbaden. She softly stroked the bangs from his forehead in a soothing, repetitive motion. He looked horrible, she thought anxiously. The faint light coming from the hallway cast a strange, eerie shadow on his pallid countenance, drawing out dramatically the dark bruises beneath his closed eyes. His long eyelashes rested on a pair of dreadfully flushed cheeks, hinting that he had a bad fever. His hand was cold as ice where it rested upon hers, and it was clammy and trembling. He was soaked in sweat, but shivering convulsively. She saw his shaking, and it worried her. How could he be cold when he was so warm and positively drenched in sweat?

"Are you cold?" Rosalee asked sympathetically and incredulously. He nodded slightly in response. Already a horrible feeling of total exhaustion had set in, and he didn't want to move or talk anymore. His body was stiff and sore all of a sudden, as if he'd been hit by a Seigbarste. His head was beginning to throb mercilessly, pounding out a steady, rocking beat in his aching, plugged-up ears. His heart was racing in his chest, which was highly unnatural. His breathing was hard, fast, and labored. This was miserable, he realized. Rosalee carefully tucked the blankets around him. She knew he had to have a fever – it was unmistakable. The question was, how high of a fever was it? Carefully, so as not to jostle him, she stood up.

"Do you have a thermometer?" She asked.

"Y-Yes," Monroe murmured, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounded in his own ears. This was pathetic. "In… in the bathroom cabinet… th-third shelf." He tried clearing his throat to make his voice go back to normal, but the organ simply burned and ached in protest. He almost yelped from the pain of the sudden attack. Rosalee disappeared from the room, only to reappear a second later after a little bit of rummaging with the little device. Crouching back down, she gently caressed the sweat-plastered hair off his forehead with a practiced, loving hand. Monroe leaned into the touch involuntarily, relishing how blissfully cool, comforting, and natural it felt to him. Her own hands shook as he sought out her careful, loving touch. She tried to remain calm. He was a patient, even if he was her boyfriend.

"Open up," Rosalee coaxed in a low whisper, for a lump had suddenly risen up in her throat that was threatening to release tears from her eyes at any given moment, and she wanted to prevent her voice from breaking or quivering and betraying her emotions, which would no doubt worry Monroe. In situations like this, she knew it was absolutely mandatory to be levelheaded. Usually, she was very good at hiding her true emotions, and now had to be one of those times.

Slowly, Monroe'' lips parted and he allowed Rosalee to slide the thin metal tube beneath his tongue. He held still for just a few seconds before a discordant beep alerted Rosalee. She carefully pulled out the instrument and rolled it over in her hands until the display window faced her. She gasped aloud with absolute horror at what number reflected back at her: the numbers 105.4 flashed across the screen, burning themselves into her retinas.

"Monroe…," she whispered softly, and her tone was somehow chiding and sympathetic simultaneously.

"What is it?" He asked. Rosalee comfortingly touched his shoulder.

"One hundred and five point four," she murmured.

"F-Feels like it should be somewhere around t-twenty below z-zero," he commented, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso and attempting to heat them up by friction caused by using his hands to rub them with quick, spastic strokes.

"Does it usually get this high for… for you?" Rosalee asked. She was going to ask if it got that high for Blutbaden, but changed her mind at the last second to avoid upsetting him.

"With… with certain diseases it does," Monroe told her. "It can get up to… to one hundred and ten."

"Poor thing," Rosalee said. Normally, such a pitying remark would have mortified him, but coming from her it felt like she was simply saying she understood all his suffering. He'd never admit it aloud for fear of the shame that might come to him, but he felt safe and wanted with her.

"Rosalee, I'm so sorry," he murmured apologetically.

"Sweetheart," Rosalee responded, tucking the blankets close to his shaking body. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault." He let out a shuddery sigh.

"I ruined our date," he said regretfully.

"I don't mind," she promised him earnestly. "It doesn't matter what we're doing really. Not as long as I'm with you." He raised his glassy, shame-filled eyes to look up into hers. Their gazes locked, a glassy, dull, bloodshot, confused one matched with a placid, peaceful, adoring one. She smiled slightly. The "moment" was shattered, however, by a stabbing pain in Monroe's head, neck, and back that knocked the wind right out of him. Rosalee's tender look instantly turned to one of alarm.

"Are you alright?" She asked, horrified. Monroe squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth to try and head off the sudden and painful attack. He felt as if he'd been speared straight through the brain. The pain of it was positively unbearable. Everything hurt: moving, blinking, breathing, everything. He realized how hindering this was – if a simple intake of breath caused this much agony, how on earth would he be able to do anything? He realized how bad it undoubtedly was for his ancestors who had had to endure such fates alone. Monroe was so overcome with pain that he could not speak. He lied there, whimpering like a small child might. He hated himself for it, but what could he do? He was no longer in control of his own body – this disease was.

"N-No," he finally managed to spit out. Rosalee, ever cool headed, gently eased Monroe up into a sitting position. His body screamed out in protest, and he nearly cried out from the hurt it caused. His eyes began watering as soon as he began to move. Once he was upright, Rosalee sat down cross-legged in front of him on the bed and eased his feverish head down onto her shoulder. He was holding his breath, trying to wait out the pain. Rosalee gently probed the back of his head, neck, and shoulders with gentle fingers, carefully massaging out the ache. The initial touch had caused him to jump and cringe back. He yelped slightly and began positively shaking right on the spot, not from chills but from pain. Rosalee was as careful and gentle as ever. She noticed how he sort of avoided all contact with her except with his head on her shoulder. She eased him closer a little at a time. He shivered convulsively and she held him close. He stiffened, but immediately forced himself to relax when that hurt too much. Cautiously, he rested his hands on her shoulders to brace himself. Eventually, he ended up wrapping them around her shoulders in a sort of embrace.

"Better?" She asked curiously.

"Yeah," Monroe admitted. He wanted to tell her he'd never felt anything so wonderful than her hands on him, comforting him, helping heal him or at least alleviate some of his worst symptoms. He closed his eyes and let her continue to rub the sore areas with light and practiced fingers. Somehow, she seemed to know all the sensitive spots, and she was able to ease much of the pain in his body.

Soon, too soon, she was easing him back down into a lying position. He coughed weakly. She got up, intending to go get a wet washcloth to wipe his sweat-dampened face with, but he reached out anxiously and gently tugged her wrist with his index finger and thumb. She turned around.

"What's wrong?" She asked immediately.

"P-Please don't leave," he murmured meekly.

"Monroe, I'm not going to leave you," she promised, unsure of where such an outburst was coming from. She'd never heard anything quite so… vulnerable come from someone like Monroe. Not even in the apothecary. "I'm just going to go get a wet rag to cool you down. Just relax." Monroe sighed in relief and nodded. He turned her wrist loose and she left the room quietly. She went to the bathroom and found a small washcloth under the sink. She ran it under the cold tap for a few minutes until her hands went numb from the chill as she thought about how scared Monroe had looked when she had gotten up to leave. She wondered what that meant, but knew she had no time to dwell on it now. She then turned off the faucet and wrung out the cloth so the sopping wetness of the thing wouldn't soak him further. She thought about getting a bowl of water to rewet the cloth later but figured she could get that when he was sleeping and not afraid of her being gone. She silently crept back to the darkened bedroom.

She moved over to the bed where Monroe was shivering and whimpering, his face completely blanched and slicked with tiny beads of sweat. His eyes were clenched tightly closed so that he didn't seem asleep, just in incredible pain. The Fuchsbau girl knelt down beside the Blutbad with the wet washcloth and very gently pressed it to his feverish brow. Monroe's eyes shot open and he shrunk back slightly with a soft yelp and a small whimper.

"Shh," Rosalee soothed, coaxing his head closer to her carefully with her free hand and pressing the cloth down again, gently skimming away the sweat that stuck there. "Relax, Monroe. It's okay. You're okay." Her voice was careful and soothing. She folded the cloth under itself and pressed the new, cooler side to his face again. Slowly, the cool touch did its job and he began to relax, and Rosalie bathed his face and neck with cool water as gently as she could manage. She was getting worried that this was something more serious than she had first imagined. She tenderly wiped the sweat and sickness from his face, staring intently into it, trying to figure out what was behind his fear, but it revealed nothing to her but a sick, suffering man. She gently stroked his curls with an idle hand as she tried to cool him down.

"Any… any idea what this is?" He asked languidly, and Rosalee could tell he was almost to the point of sleep.

"No," Rosalee said apologetically. "I'm not sure yet. It doesn't matter though. Whatever it is, I'm going to take care of you until it's gone. I swear it."

"Thank you," he murmured softly.

"Shh," she said. "You're always welcome. Now just close your eyes and rest. Everything will be alright. I'll be right here." Slowly, Monroe began to fade. His eyes stayed trained on her until he absolutely could not keep them open any longer. He fell into a deep, long sleep.

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><p><strong>AN: So that's it for now. I'll let him sleep awhile. I've really appreciated all the reviews you guys have lavished on me, and I'd always love to hear more from you! Please review - it keeps me going as a writer, and sometimes you guys give me spectacular ideas! Happy Mother's Day, and see you all very soon to explore the dark, haunting past of Eddie Monroe, the world's favorite Blutbad!**

**~PG22**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Hello again, Grimmlins! I have returned with chapter 5, and, as promised, my idea of what happened in Monroe's youth to make him turn Weider later in life and hint about how he used to be bad. I focused this chapter on the line from the pilot episode, "And I am done with the bad thing." Here goes nothing.**

**Thank you all for your lovely reviews and support!**

**Just a few side notes. I placed Monroe in Rhode Island for his youth. Just because. There was no real rhyme or reason to it honestly. This chapter takes place in mostly flashback/nightmare form, just a heads up. Also, this chapter gets a little brutal, with some mention of blood and killing and... well, it's like the show. Not quite for the faint of heart. I tried not to be too graphic. At the same time, I felt it had to be something really bad he did. If you don't like death or reading about killing or violence, don't read this chapter. I would hate to have to make this story M, since this is the only instance of violence I plan to have, but I will change the rating if it's necessary. **

**Lastly, how about that season finale, huh? I'm STILL confused as to what the heck is going on, but I guess we'll just have to wait and see! I can't wait to see what they do next season. This show has real promise!**

**Spoilers: If you haven't seen "The Three Bad Wolves," and don't want to be spoiled, don't read this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Grimm.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

Monroe had real terrors in his life. These things he had never described to anybody, but he relived them every day of his life. As he slept, a memory came to him: the first time he'd met Nick Burkhardt. It was a strange thing to remember in his fevered dreams. He saw himself standing pressed against his kitchen counter. "I'm done with the bad thing," he had said. And that's when it hit him, what his mind was really heading for.

The words rang in his ears as the vivid memory commandeered his dreams and turned them back into the horrors and nightmares of reality.

_Monroe was still young and wild. He had realized he was a Blutbad like his parents a long while ago, and after his high school sweetheart had dumped him and run off with the Klaustreich, he had met Angelina, who was as wild and untamed as a volcano. They had mixed well together, even though she sometimes steered him to do things he never would have dreamed of doing. Her personality was best described as "explosive" and she did things to him he couldn't describe, things that made him feel fully alive, free, and in his natural state of mind. Their hunting trips to the woods made every nerve ending in his body ignite and tingle, filled him with feelings he couldn't explain. She was absolutely electrically charged._

_ Because of this, Monroe was unlearning his humanity slowly and tapping more and more into his animal side, the primitive, untamed part of him that made him "bad" by nature. Because of how far gone he was, and how much he was losing touch with his humanity, he did the horrible unforgivable thing he did that made him really rethink his entire life._

_ Of all Blutbaden, in Rhode Island, where Monroe grew up, everyone believed Monroe would be least likely to accept traditional Blutbaden ways and most likely to join in the reformed, Weider movement. Because of this, no one really believed he was capable of what he did the week after he turned 21. Even now, as an adult with a life and a job and a complete character transformation, when he could easily chalk it up to immaturity and stupidity, it still haunted him to the core. This event was unlike anything that had ever happened before to him. Before, with and without Angelina, the prey had always been small to mid-sized game like rabbits, birds, squirrels, or mountain lions. Once, they had managed to take down a moose together, and another time they had broken into the city zoo after dark. That was a messy day. But this time, the prey was something even the half-wild Monroe wouldn't have dreamed of hunting in a million years. He knew to Angelina, it was no big deal, but to him, it was personally disturbing. This type of prey brought questions, attentions, and consequences that only daring, strong, completely-wild Blutbaden were able to deal with. The prey this time was a little girl._

_ The girl's name was Mary Anne Rouge. She was about nine years old when the incident occurred and had been Monroe's neighbor for years before he had moved out of his parents' house. She had always been kind, never failing to greet Monroe when she'd see him outside as she'd get the mail or the paper for her family, or arrive home from the bus stop. Monroe had taken a liking to this young one. In order to protect her, he had steeled himself against the affects of the color red. He had an incredible amount of self-control when he wasn't intoxicated by Angelina's personality. He'd even begun to favor red thanks to Mary Anne wearing it so often and it losing its affect on him. So as things worked out, a sort of friendship came about._

_ Mary Anne was young but intelligent, always eager to lend a helping hand. She was a bubbly, outgoing girl who could instantly make friends, and she was always very trusting, almost to the point of it being a danger to her. She had dark hair that she wore to her shoulders, and gigantic, beautiful, philosophical blue eyes. Because she was an only child, Monroe felt a responsibility for the young girl and took her under his wing. He became a sort of big brother figure to her. They trusted one another in certain aspects, and neither one ever dreamed any harm would come to the other, especially not when they were together. Monroe even went over to hang out with the seven-year-old Mary Anne one day when her parents had left her home alone (after she had begged them and negotiated with them with Monroe's help) to go to a party and she heard strange noises in the house. So naturally, when Monroe turned 18 and moved out of his parents' house and into a dorm, it was devastating for both parties. Monroe had, after all, basically grown up with his friend Mary Anne._

_ During his years at college and dating Angelina, he became even more wild and unpredictable. Without Mary Anne around to force him to keep tame, he lost his love for the color red and began to wig out and become completely unpredictable whenever he saw it. Then, after he turned twenty-one and moved into a small home he rented out, disaster struck. He remembered it like it was yesterday. He and Angelina had splurged on his 21__st__ birthday with not just alcohol but also some hard-core hunting. The "celebration" lasted for days, with the couple delving completely into their wild side, sleeping in the woods, killing for fun and for the meat, and generally being stupid kids. But after an evening meal of a juicy bear, Monroe had begun to feel off. They cut their trip short when he had informed Angelina of feeling exhausted to avoid seeming weak. If he had just decided to stay, things wouldn't have happened the way they did._

_ This particular day, after Monroe had gone home, buzzed off alcohol and flat-out drunk on his newfound wildness, for a reason no one would ever know, Mary Anne was walking in Monroe's neighborhood alone. It was far away from where she lived, and now that he was older and all was said and done, Monroe could not shake the feeling the girl had come specifically in search of him. He was on the phone with Angelina when the first flash of red caught his eye. He had to do a double-take, and as soon as his eyes locked onto the red of her sweatshirt, the instincts took over. Thanks to how wild he'd been the last few days, he completely lost his head. Later he would recall he'd had no idea who it was, but that the color was enough to make him crazy. In a swift motion, he was off the phone and in full Blutbaden form. And in mere seconds, he had abducted his dear friend._

_ Thankfully, he was not ready to "feed" again, not so soon after gorging with Angelina in the woods. It should have been that he kept her until he regained his head and would set her free. But, fate had to add a degree of difficulty to this. The bear he'd eaten the previous day had been infected with a deadly virus known as Lupofiebre. It was an illness that typically affected only Blutbaden and was feared throughout the Blutbaden community because of its numbers of fatalities (though other Wesen were sometimes directly and indirectly affected as well). It was a terrible fate to suffer and often led to a horribly gruesome death. The disease caused flu-like symptoms and a characteristic painful rash that caused numerous problems thanks to pustules bursting and destroying chunks of flesh all the way down to the bone._

_ Monroe had no chance of ever regaining his mental state because just after he abducted Mary Anne, the illness hit full force. He tried to work through it, feeding Mary Anne to fatten her up for slaughter, which, in his current fevered mental state, seemed like the only option for a Blutbad on the hunt._

_ "Eddie, what are you doing?" She had asked, and there was absolute and genuine fear in her voice as Monroe stared at her, commanding her to shovel in more food._

_ "Nothing, my dear," he promised, and never used her name because, in truth, he did not yet know who it was he had abducted._

_ "I want to go home," she protested._

_ Then, in a sickening, sadistic voice Monroe still had yet to get out of his head after all these years, he purred, "This is your home now."_

_ The morning after this episode, he became bedridden, and floated in and out of consciousness at regular intervals. Mary Anne entered his bedroom sometime that morning, this time without her red sweatshirt, and gasped._

_ "Eddie, are you sick?" She asked worriedly, for even with as much fear as she had, she still thought of him as a friend._

_ "M-Mary Anne?" He remembered asking, seeing her for the first time. "What are you doing? W-What's going on?" Mary Anne knew about sick people sometimes forgetting where they were. Her father was a physician, and her grandmother a nurse, so she had learned a little bit from them._

_ "Shh," Mary Anne whispered. "It's alright Eddie." She found a thermometer to take his temperature, which she didn't understand was unnaturally high, but knew was a fever. She spent the day feeding him soup and talking to him while he drifted in and out of sleep and mental states, sometimes himself, sometimes the monster within him, with neither of them aware of the search that was going on for Mary Anne in the outside world._

_ Mary Anne was there when the rash first appeared, and she was horrified at the exploding blisters and all the blood, but she was even more terrified of Monroe's hallucinations. He saw things, things that scared him senseless: his parents being murdered, being tracked by a Grimm, reapers, Angelina being blown to bits, Mary Anne being hit with a car… his own death. Gruesome scenes plagued him, as if his imagination was trying to constantly outdo itself with grisly images. He screamed in terror, asleep or awake, and Mary Anne stood there, petrified. Her eyes locked on his, and he saw her coming towards him brandishing a knife. He shrieked and tears streamed down his face, tears that mixed with the blood on his chest and turned his whole world a bitter shade of crimson. Everything hurt. The frightened child fled the room until he had calmed down and stopped seeing the girl with a weapon._

_On normal occasions, a Blutbad would die of this disease, but this was not a normal occasion. Monroe was not alone like most Blutbaden were when they had Lupofiebre. He had Mary Anne, though he soon turned so wild with disease he couldn't recognize her._

_ Mary Anne cleaned up the blood and helped nurse him back to health, figuring the reason Monroe had taken her was for help. She never tried to run or call the police – she trusted Monroe like she trusted her parents. Days went by, and the search for the little girl named Mary Anne was in vain. Nobody could find her. Monroe was so far away from the situation and so close to the family that no one bothered to even check if she was with him. And that's what ultimately caused the problem. On a day when he was feeling a bit better thanks to Mary Anne, Monroe totally lost it._

_ Mary Anne was watching the news while Monroe was recovering in bed, his rash having partially scabbed over already, and she saw that people were looking for her. Hungry and fatigued from illness, Monroe stumbled into his living area and saw what Mary Anne saw on television about her abduction. She turned to face him, and her face was one Monroe would never be able to wipe from his memory. She looked crushed, completely betrayed. She had put her trust in him, and he had done this._

_ "You didn't just need my help," Mary Anne said, and her lower lip quivered as she said it. "You stole me from my parents. You kidnapped me. Why, Eddie? Why?" Her big blue eyes were both hurt and questioning at the same time. And Monroe, who was so appalled at himself that he was just about to turn her loose, had an unexpected spike in body temperature, and he suddenly noticed she was again wearing her red sweatshirt. The simple flash of red caused the whole of his humanity to disappear, and he went into full Blutbaden-form and struck. There were screams of terror as he transformed, as he attacked her, as he stood over her menacingly. Then, his world again turned the color of blood. He never heard her beg for her life. He never thought about his special friend. He had gone bad._

_ He had killed and mutilated her by the time he regained control over his body. On sight of her dead, broken body, he hit the ground hard, falling to his knees. He had never felt more remorse in his life. He had never before cried the way he did upon seeing her dead, and he had never cried like that since. He felt a part of him die as he looked upon her dismantled form, her face still frozen in that expression of pure terror as he'd taken her life. Not knowing who else to turn to, he called Angelina._

_ "You killed a _what_?" She demanded when he hysterically told his story. "Monroe, you've got some serious balls. How the hell did _you_ manage to take down a human with your conscience the way it is?"_

_ "It was an accident," Monroe wailed. "Angelina, they're going to be after me. I can't go to jail like that. I'm not a bad person, you know that! I just… freaked out. She was wearing red, and she was angry, and my body temperature was high, and I really don't know what came over me, but I'm not strong enough for this!"_

_ "Woah," Angelina said. "Woah. Relax, Monroe. We'll think of something."_

_ "How?" He demanded. "I'm going to get locked up for this. I deserve to be locked up for this."_

_ "Not if we make it look like an accident," she countered. And so Monroe did another unthinkable act: he and Angelina went into the woods and made the death of Mary Anne Rouges look like an animal attack. Angelina cleaned the body of any DNA that could trace back to Monroe. They put the body in an area where bears were known to be found. And they left it there to be stumbled upon by authorities. _

_ Days later, after Monroe had healed, a news bulletin was aired that the little girl who had gone missing was found dead in the woods of an animal attack. Authorities were still trying to figure out what kind of animal, but they were leaning toward it being a wolf or bear._

_ Monroe was off the hook. He was never questioned, and no one ever suspected him. He was invited to the funeral but did not go. The face of Mary Anne Rouges still haunted him every day of his life. Angelina would tease him and try to provoke him back into the woods, but Monroe, so shaken up over what his primitive side was capable of, went vegan after that. He was never the same after he had killed someone, especially someone so close to his heart. He had completely rejected his wild side once that event occurred. He tried hunting once or twice to appease Hap, but he always ended up hanging back and watching the others kill. And each time one of them would rip into the flesh of an animal, his mind would race back to the easily-ripped-into body of Mary Anne. He watched himself kill her in his mind's eye again and again and again. The blood. The pure undiluted evil that coursed through his veins. The screaming. The crying. The look in her eyes…._

Monroe was screaming. Positively screaming. He saw blood, he saw body parts, he saw his broken surrogate sister, all because of his own stupidity. Rosalee was dumbfounded at his shrieks of terror. She had been sitting quietly by the bedside working on figuring out what Monroe had using her powers of deduction and a medical book on the nightstand, and suddenly, he began screaming bloody murder. Rosalee stood up and gently shook his shoulder.

"Monroe," she murmured. "Monroe, sweetie, wake up. It's just a bad dream." He jolted awake at her words, barely able to control his basic instinct to go completely Blutbadden on her. He gasped, and his eyes were wide and alert.

"Are you alright?" Rosalee asked nervously. She looked him up and down, an eyebrow raised. His hair was plastered to his forehead by sweat, and his teeth were chattering audibly in his mouth. Monroe shook his head and hugged his torso tightly. His eyes were the most haunting part of him, Rosalee realized. They were dull and glassy with sickness, yet bright with fever, but they looked like the eyes of a small child, startled, terrified. He looked quite honestly like a frightened animal. Yet his eyes conveyed so much inexplicable pain and hurt. Rosalee could not stop herself from sitting beside him on the bed and taking him into a warm, loving embrace.

"It was just a dream," she promised, stroking his hair lovingly and trying to soothe him. "Just a nightmare. It's not real, Monroe. Everything's going to be okay." Not real? Monroe almost laughed at this. If she only knew just how real it was. But he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to relive the moment anymore. He closed his eyes and rested his feverish forehead on her shoulder, relishing the feeling of her arms encircling him. He felt absurdly safe there in those arms.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Rosalee asked. As she did, Monroe heard the scream of a child in his head and saw the splash of fresh blood on a wall as he tasted the sweetness of human flesh…. He instantly let out a yelp of fright and almost blacked out on the spot. Tears began to well up in his eyes and spill over the edge. He hated himself in this moment than he ever had in his whole life. How could he have been so inhumane, so unspeakably evil? And poor Rosalee, she must be so confused, he thought. She gently caressed his cheek to try and calm him down. She was more confused than ever, but she tried not to show it. He'd probably tell her eventually.

"Shh, shh, Monroe," Rosalee coaxed. "It's alright. You don't have to say. I understand." She didn't understand, Monroe told himself, and he'd never be able to tell her. If he did, he worried – no, he knew, with absolute certainty - she'd no doubt leave him, unable to forgive him for doing such a terrible, unspeakable thing, just as he was unable to forgive himself.

As Rosalee tried futilely to make his unexplained terror and psychological pain go away, a new development was occurring just beneath the cottony fabric of Monroe's pajama shirt. An angry red rash was beginning to form, and with each rub of shirt to skin with the slightest movement, a bubble cropped up. The characterizing symptom of Lupofiebre had begun.

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><p><strong>AN: So yeah, that's my take on what made Monroe want to reject being a Blutbad. I intend to build on this and bring in more details throughout the illness. Also, I'm attempting to re-vamp Rosalee's speech a little, so bear with me please as I try to work it out! **

**Your reviews are always appreciated! Let me know what you think and how I'm doing.**

**I plan to be back soon with more, so be on the lookout if you happen to enjoy this story!**

**Ciao for now!**

**~PG22**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: ****So here I am again, bearing the gift of a relatively long chapter. Sorry it took so long. I've been working on some editing and getting this just right. But I felt that I could delay it no longer. It's time to figure out what exactly our favorite Blutbad has come down with!**

**Thank you all for your continued support as I continue to write this story. All your comments are so appreciated! I will write this as**** long as I have an audience to write to!**

**I'm actually really happy the last chapter was so well received. I thought maybe it was a little too violent. I noticed a few of you expressed that you didn't agree that Monroe was capable of doing something like that, but I've been rewatching the series, and it is clear he did kill in his lifetime. What he killed is still unclear, but the fact is, he specifically mentions it multiple times. It is a little difficult to imagine our sweet Monroe doing something like that, but the fact remains that Blutbaden and many other Wesen can be deadly in their creature form, as shown in this line, "I may be on your side, I may be on his side, I may even go after the girl." ~ Pilot**

**Another thing I noticed is the confusion with Monroe's name. I've heard it used both ways. I found out through some research that his name was supposed to be Eddie, but they cut it right before the show started so now he's "Just Monroe." I figured in his youth they could have called him Eddie, which is why I let Mary Anne use that name. However, I don't believe Angelina ever called him by anything other than Monroe, nor do I believe he ever introduced himself to Rosalee using that name. For this reason, I am taking creative license on the places I use his first name. I'm thinking about possibly letting Rosalee find out later in the story and start using it, but nothing's for certain yet, so bear with me.**

**I tried to spice up Rosalee's speech, because let's face it, from the beginning she's had quite a bit of spunk. I hope I didn't make her too snarky, however. I know she's very sweet around Monroe. And Nick I guess. Do let me know if you have any ideas for how I should write her speech; she has to be one of the hardest characters to write, I swear. She's quite complex, and just listening to her speak in the show, I know I'm going to have a hard time mimicking that.**

**So, I've prattled on enough. On with the story!**

**Spoilers: Erm... if you have not seen "Of Mouse and Man," there is a small spoiler in there for that. (Oh come on, you knew this one was coming!)**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Grimm.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 6<strong>

Rosalee had finally managed to calm Monroe down enough to get him to lie down again, but he was stubbornly trying to keep his eyes open. She had finally given up hope of getting him to fall asleep again. He needed sleep to recover, but was insistent upon not seeing whatever had caused him so much terror before. She sat next to him, holding his hand. It was well past midnight, and he needed to rest. She idly thought about running to the drugstore to purchase some sleeping medication for him.

That's when she remembered she knew an alternative to drugging him with the artificial crap from the drugstore concocted of things Monroe probably had lying around the house. She soaked a washcloth in a basin of cool water on his nightstand and wrung it out. She laid it across his forehead. She wanted to get up and go make him some medicine, but his eyes remained trained on her, and she worried about how he might react to her leaving. She also didn't think he'd be particularly apt to take sleeping medicine, terrified as he currently was of sleeping. It seemed as though the only way to get him to sleep was to trick him into drinking something that would put him to sleep. After a little more thought, she figured out the perfect deceit: a fever reducer.

"Monroe," she said gently. "I'm going to go make a medicine to lower your fever, alright?" It was a lie, a total lie. She didn't know why it was so hard to lie to him, but it was. However, he didn't even seem to register the slight quiver in her voice as she said it. He nodded. It seemed like a good idea; he felt like he was on fire. "I won't be gone long," she promised, planting a tender kiss on his sticky forehead. _He really does need a fever reducer_, she thought to herself as she stood up and exited the room, heading for Monroe's kitchen. Once there, she stumbled around aimlessly, trying to figure out where the man kept his herbs, spices, and other requirements for holistic healing. She finally found them in a cabinet above the sink. She searched around and came up with the ingredients she needed, things like mint, pumpkin seeds, lavender, L-theanine, and valerian. She decided to leave the herbs for now and go with a drink she'd seen her parents concoct years ago for a hexenbiest that was having terrible sleep problems.

Carefully, she ground up unsalted pumpkin seeds into a fine powder using Monroe's mortar and pestle, located on his cabinet. She then poured a glass of milk and mixed the seeds in. This would mask the fact that she'd be pumping a natural vitamin called melatonin, which helped the sleep cycle, into his system, and milk was also very soothing – something she knew from her own experience. She even warmed it, knowing how that tended to calm people down when they were anxious or worked up. She added a drizzle of honey and mixed the whole concoction up. She stuck a straw in it and, satisfied with her work, brought it to the bedroom.

As she expected, Monroe was still fighting his exhaustion, intent upon not falling asleep. His eyes were wide open, though every so often, they would start to drift closed, but then the scent of blood and sound of an innocent girl dying would jolt them back open. Rosalee entered the room and sat down on the chair by the bed. She wordlessly helped prop him up on his pillow and handed him the drugged beverage.

"Here," she said. "Drink this. You'll feel better."

"What is it?" He asked groggily, already having forgotten why she'd gone off. She could tell he was exhausted.

"It's a fever reducer," she lied simply. He eyed it before taking a cautious sip. Obviously, it must have tasted fantastic, because he drank the rest without a single word. She helped him lie back down, taking the glass from his hands and setting it on the table by his bed. She wondered how long this would take to take effect, but she wasn't left wondering for long. Almost instantly, Monroe's eyelids began to droop considerably.

"Rose, are you sure that was a fever reducer?" He asked.

"Yes," Rosalee said, almost too innocently. "Why? Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do," he said, stifling a yawn. "It's just… I don't know. I don't feel any cooler. I just feel… more tired if anything."

"Hmm," she said in mock confusion. "Maybe it has that sort of side effect on you."

"Is it supposed to taste… pumpkin-y?" Monroe asked. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide as he realized just what she'd drugged him with.

"Just relax, Monroe," Rosalee said firmly before he could open his mouth and panic. "You need to sleep."

"Rose, you don't understand," Monroe pleaded frantically, eyes wide in terror, voice hoarse with terror and sickness. "I can't fall asleep. The memories…." He shuddered as he thought of the girlish screaming, the look of extreme terror, and the soft flesh and the blood…. He began to hyperventilate, his stomach turning over and over within him at the graphic images plaguing his fevered brain. Rosalee noticed him turn from pale to green. He felt his thoughts slowly slipping, giving way to the dark, peaceful nothingness of sleep as the natural drug began to take effect.

"I'm sorry, Monroe," Rosalee said, sounding unconvincing and knowing it. "You need to sleep if you ever plan on recovering. The extra melatonin and your own exhaustion should keep the dreams away for now. And I'll be here to wake you if the nightmares come back. Just trust me." That was a lot to ask of him, Monroe realized. He didn't know if he was going to be able to take going right back to that place again. He didn't have time to debate this inside his head, however, as the medication Rosalee had concocted suddenly took its effect and he promptly fell fast asleep.

Rosalee brought the glass back to the kitchen after tucking the blankets closely around Monroe's shivering body. She thought about making some for herself, as the excitement of the day was making it difficult for her to feel tired at all. She was a whirlwind of emotion and pent-up energy inside. Instead, however, she found a book on one of Monroe's many shelves, _100 Wesen Diseases and Their Cures_. She decided to thumb through this volume for a while on Monroe's sofa until she was tired enough to sleep. She had only gotten to about number 30 when her eyelids began to grow heavy. The disease she had landed on was Lupofiebre, the virus that affected Blutbaden (the same virus that Monroe had contracted before killing Mary Anne). She was just reading through it trying to rule it out as a possibility when she noticed how similar the symptoms listed in the book and the symptoms Monroe had were. High fever, severe headaches and body aches, chills, weakness, fatigue, vivid and terrifying nightmares…. She started to panic. Lupofiebre was bad, very bad. If Monroe had it…. She couldn't make herself think the end of that statement. Her breathing picked up speed as she realized the dangers and horrors of the disease. She silently begged any god who was listening that Monroe didn't have it.

The book went on to list nausea, a productive cough, increased sensitivity to light, temperature, altitude, scents, and other environmental factors, dizziness, slurred speech, hallucinations, crazy fits of rage, and a skin rash across the chest as symptoms. The picture of the skin rash that came with the book was gruesome; it was a bright, angry red and bloody. The poor Blutbad pictured looked like he was suffering immensely. Monroe didn't have a rash, she realized with a flood of relief, nor did he have a good half of the symptoms listed. Just because it only affected Blutbaden did not mean it had to affect Monroe, she told herself. She decided she'd go to the shop for her medical books and some more herbs in the morning so she could figure out once and for all what it was Monroe had and how to treat it, and with that she was able to simply close the book and curl up on the couch before sleep overtook her.

Rosalee awoke to the sound of rain beating down on Monroe's roof. It took her only a disoriented moment to remember where she was and what she was doing there. She stretched out her stiff limbs and stood up, taking notice of the book she'd discarded the night before. Lupofiebre, she thought, smiling at her own stupidity and shaking her head for good measure. The disease was relatively rare – it did not show up all that often in Portland anyway – and deadly. She hadn't actually seen a case in Portland since she was seventeen at the apothecary shop with her parents. She knew she was being paranoid, fearing the worst, thinking that disease had been it. She scolded herself mentally for being so unreasonable.

She decided to check on Monroe before going to the shop to get what she needed. He seemed to have slept through the night, as she was a relatively light sleeper and most likely would have heard his screaming, had there been any.

She entered to find him still fast asleep, lying on his back, his face contorted slightly in pain. Every so often, he'd let out a soft whimper, but nothing on the outside indicated he was having a nightmare, which Rosalee took to be a good sign. The only things she noticed to be amiss were that his face was flushed beneath the sickly pallor and he was sweating profusely. She gently felt his forehead, using the gentlest touch possible so as not to wake him up. He was still too unnaturally warm. She carefully crept out of the bedroom and to the bathroom to get a fresh rag to cool him off with.

Upon returning, she sat down by the bedside and carefully skimmed the sweat off his forehead. She spent a good five minutes cooling down his face and neck with the cloth until she realized she probably should wipe down his chest as well. She pulled the covers back a little, just to his waist, and carefully unbuttoned his pajama shirt, peeling it back over his shoulders. He winced and moaned pitifully in his sleep. Rosalee didn't even notice the pained noises he was making, as her attention was grabbed by something somewhat more pressing. She gasped in horror at what she was staring at. Under the soft cotton of the sleep shirt, Monroe's chest had turned an angry, burning red. Small pustules were bubbling up all over the rash. One had already gotten too full and had exploded, spattering the inside of his shirt with bright crimson blood and pus. In the spot where the bubble used to be was a wound about the size of a pencil eraser. It was bleeding badly and was quite deep from what she could see. Suddenly, an image came to her head: a sickly Blutbad lying on the table in the back examination room at her parents' shop; a red, bleeding rash oozing all kinds of repulsive fluids; the pained moans, the eyes nearly dead; her mother slathering the rash with an ointment that made the patient scream in intense pain; she and her father and Freddie holding him down so her mother could do her job without getting hurt; her father uttering over and over one word as mulitple pustules exploded repeatedly…. Lupofiebre.

The thought made her completely nauseas with worry. Lupofiebre was a dreaded disease among Wesen, particularly Blutbaden. It was characterized by the horribly violent rash that bubbled, and when the pustules burst, it caused the victim excruciating pain. The bursting caused crater-like wounds. Before it could ever begin to scab over, a new pustule would form on the spot and would eventually burst, leaving deep wounds all the way down to muscle and bone. The rash itself was the most deadly part of the Lupofiebre because, left untreated the way the disease typically was by proud Blutbaden, the victim could get blood poisoning or other infections from the open wounds. It was also severely painful, which often caused the violent hallucinations and nightmares Monroe's book had been talking about.

Rosalee knew the treatment for the disease. She could picture that poor man lying on the table in her adolescence, slipping away as blood positively gushed from his many wounds, with her mother hastily mixing medicines, unable to let someone die for their pride. She wasn't exactly concerned about Monroe dying, especially since the disease was early in its course and was treatable. She had to remind herself multiple times that she knew the treatment before it actually registered in her mind that she had nothing to worry about, that Monroe was not going to die. He couldn't die. She was there, and she wouldn't let other infections set in by leaving it untreated. She was certain, however, that the healing was going to be quite the painful process. Treatment came in two stages: the first one stimulated healing and closing of wounds, disinfected, and was very painful, and the second one soothed the ache.

But how should she go about doing this, she wondered? She knew she couldn't leave him alone, that was for sure. What would happen if he awakened and she had actually left him? He would think she, like any other Wesen, had abandoned him due to his weakness. She couldn't do that to him. It would crush him. She folded the cool washcloth and carefully dabbed his wound with it, causing him to wince in his fitful sleep and involuntarily recoil.

"Lie still, Monroe," Rosalee soothed. "Take it easy. It's okay." She thought about ways she could get to the shop to grab the ingredients for the two remedies she needed without destroying Monroe. She thought about rousing him and taking him along for the trip, but just the mere thought of waking him up and unwittingly forcing him to feel the torturous pain of the illness made her anxious. He was too sick to be moved now, she decided as she smoothed down his unruly tangle of dampened hair. His face was flushed and sweaty, and his facial muscles were twitching and jerking involuntarily, his features screwed up in pain as he slept. The hallucinations would come next, Rosalee recalled, possibly as soon as he next awakened. She was stuck. Her heart went out to him; she couldn't stand knowing he was enduring all this pain. She hated watching him suffer. Carefully, she continued to try and staunch the bleeding of his chest. Just as she set the cloth down to wipe up the rest of the red, sticky mess, two more pustules exploded, leaving wounds the size of quarters and several centimeters deep on his flesh. They promptly began to ooze blood, thick and dark and horrifying. Monroe cringed and whimpered, several tears leaking uncontrollably from his closed eyes.

"Shh, shh," Rosalee urged, caressing Monroe's face and wiping the hot, salty tears from his cheeks with her thumb. "It's alright. It's all going to be alright." The pain of the rash had awakened him, and he opened his eyes slowly and groggily, allowing the tears to flow freely down his cheeks.

"Rosalee," he murmured pitifully and almost incoherently. He looked down at his exposed chest and turned a rather foreboding shade of green. Suddenly, he realized with a start what he had.

"Lupofiebre," he murmured; it was not a question.

"Yes," Rosalee said, her fingers closing tightly around his hand. She'd never seen anyone so weak and vulnerable as he looked at this moment. He was still losing blood slowly, but she couldn't move her hand to apply pressure to try and stop it. She found herself unable to take her eyes from him. He was trying to fight the tears, but by the way he was cringing, Rosalee could tell he was in too much pain to win such a fight. She realized with a start that she had never seen him cry. As she thought about it, she realized she'd never seen anyone as tough as Monroe cry. She tried to wrap her head around it. He looked so weak and fragile, so breakable, so sick.

"It's going to be okay, Monroe," Rosalee promised softly, as if she were speaking to a frightened child or a wild animal. "I'm going to take care of you. I won't let you die from this." She smoothed his hair back gently with her free hand. He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, the salty, humiliating tears streaming down his reddened cheeks.

"It hurts," he moaned miserably. Rosalee almost began crying herself; she had to force the lump in her throat to retreat. Now was not the time, she reminded herself. She glanced down at the rash again; it looked so painful. She had to focus on relieving Monroe's pain, not indulging her own terror and disgust. He was shivering madly, as though he was slowly freezing to death, yet he was positively drenched in sweat. Just as she moved to cover him with the blankets, another sore burst open and began bleeding profusely.

Rosalee forced herself to contain her gasp just as the pain flared in Monroe's chest and _he _gasped. He squeezed her hand without the knowledge he was doing it and whimpered in pain. The new wound was deep. Rosalee swallowed hard and carefully dabbed the gashes with the washcloth. She knew she probably should bandage him up, but if this truly was Lupofiebre, it wouldn't do much good. It would cause more blisters besides. She realized with a start that that meant so would buttoning his pajama shirt or pulling up the blankets. He'd have to just lie there, uncovered, freezing, and bare-chested, shivering up a storm, until Rosalee could get the rash under control.

"Try and rest," Rosalee said distractedly, her mind a million miles away somewhere in the shop trying to mentally find all the ingredients needed to treat Lupofiebre. Her main concern now was getting to the shop without making Monroe worse in the process. She knew the hallucinations were going to start any minute, and she could not bear to leave him alone during them, especially not with the many ways he could harm himself unsupervised.

Her mind suddenly flew to a story her mother would tell the few, brave Lupofiebre patients who had managed to swallow their pride enough to drag themselves through the door of the shop. She'd praise the men for their courage in coming to see her, and tell them about a man who had contracted Lupofiebre and, in his stubbornness, had refused to go for treatment, continuing to try and look tough for the pack. By the time the hallucinations came, everyone had abandoned him for fear of his weakness being a hindrance to them as a fighting body. Alone in his house as he was, he had seen the shadows come alive in the form of reapers and chase him through his home. The terrified Blutbad had taken a rifle and shot the wall, had transformed into full-creature form and attacked the dark figures, and had even tried to kill them with kitchen knives. Yet, as they were just figments of his imagination, they continuously came back. He threw a knife at one he thought he had backed against the wall, but the weapon did not lodge itself in the cement and drywall; rather, it rebounded and embedded itself in his leg. This led to all sorts of complications, including eventual amputation of the limb.

Rosalee's mother told that story to discourage any of her patients from not getting help or remaining somewhere alone and unsupervised as the fever raged on inside them. The tale had not only scared her patients; it had also managed to frighten Rosalee. No, Rosalee knew she could not leave Monroe alone, not when things were about to get really bad for him. She made her decision at that point: she had to call Nick.

"I have an herbal remedy for this," Rosalee said to Monroe, "but it requires me going to the shop to get it. I don't really want to leave you alone and risk you harming yourself or others, so I'm going to call Nick." Monroe looked over at her. He was familiar with Lupofiebre to say the least, and he knew how crazy he could get because of it.

"He's… he's not going to know what to do," Monroe warned in regards to his friend. "If I freak out on him, it's not going to be pretty."

"I'll have to take my chances," she said simply. "There's no way I'm leaving you here alone. Nick is a grown man, a cop, and a Grimm. If he can't handle your hallucinations or fits of rage, no one can. Just try to relax and sleep, and maybe we won't have any problems." She hoped they wouldn't have any problems anyway. Monroe's words had shaken her up considerably. What if Nick truly didn't know what to do and Monroe did end up hurting himself – or Nick for that matter?

In that moment of weakness, she almost didn't make the call. But then she thought, _where will we be if I don't get him treated right away? _This thought won out over every other one in her head, and she moved away from the bed and pulled out her phone. She dialed Nick's number.

"Burkhardt," Nick answered after the third ring. Rosalee rolled her eyes. He obviously could read caller i.d. She was almost positive he could tell it was her.

Just to be sure, however, she said, "Nick, hey, it's Rosalee."

"Oh, hey, Rosalee," he responded. "What's up? Is everything okay?"

"Actually, no," she said, glancing over her shoulder at Monroe. "But then, when do we ever speak to each other when things are okay?"

"Good point," Nick asked. "So what's up? What's wrong?"

"It's about Monroe," Rosalee said, knowing that would surely get his attention. There came from the other end what could only be called an ominous silence.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Nick asked, "What happened? Was it reapers again?" The pain and anxiety in his voice was unmistakable.

"No, no reapers," Rosalee said, taken aback. "Why? Has that happened before?"

"Once," Nick said. Then, so as not to alarm her, he added, "A while ago. He's fine though, obviously. They just sort of roughed him up as an example to me… you know what? That's actually not important right now. What's wrong with him?"

"I'm taking a rain check on hearing that story just because I'm worried about what's going on currently," Rosalee said, "but I still want to hear about it. Anyway, he's sick. He's contracted a semi-rare Blutbad disease."

"How sick is he?" Nick asked, still not understanding why Rosalee was calling _him_. This obviously was not Grimm-related. This was more her realm of expertise.

"He's really, really sick, Nick," she said. "This is not something you should take lightly. I need a favor from you."

"Oh," Nick said. "Okay, sure. What do you need me to do?"

"I have an herbal cure for what he has, but I can't leave him alone to go to the shop and get it."

"Okay," Nick said uncertainly. "So you want me to… what? Come down his house and watch him while you go out? Is that even necessary? I mean, Monroe's a grown man, Rosalee. I'm pretty sure he can take care of-"

"Nick, I'm well aware he's a grown man," Rosalee said sharply. "The problem is, the disease is about to start giving him fierce hallucinations, and if he hurts himself or someone else because of what he sees in his mind, I'll never forgive myself. I'm asking you to come down and help me out for a few minutes to keep him safe."

"Oh," Nick said, taken aback. "That makes sense. Okay. I'm on my way. Just hold tight."

"Thank you," Rosalee said. If it hadn't been so much like pulling teeth, she might've sounded a bit relieved. She hung up. She sat back down, but was anxious to get going so she could get her things and start healing him. Restlessly, she got up, got a fresh washcloth, soaked it in cold water, and went back to trying to lower his fever while she waited for Nick to arrive. Monroe let out a series of low moans as the rash continued to leave deep lesions in his flesh at random. His skin was raw and tender to the touch. He was slowly slipping away from reality, suddenly unaware of anything but his pain and Rosalee next to him with a cool rag. And that was all he knew of, all his whole world consisted of, until the reapers arrived.

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><p><strong>AN: So that's it for now! I feel so evil with that cliffhanger. Next chapter will come soon. In the meantime, I love comments and reviews! They are always very much appreciated. Thank you all for your continued support. And I don't know about you, but I am rather excited about NBC showing reruns of Grimm every Monday! I definitely plan to watch them all again, that way or online. Anyway, hope you all enjoyed. I hope the disease isn't too graphic for anyone. In my head, it was pretty brutal, so I tried to tone it down a bit. **

**Ciao!**

**~PG22**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Hi guys, I'm back! I'm sorry it took so long to finish, and I apologize for the brevity. Hopefully there will be something longer coming very soon. I never have a free moment to write anymore. Funny how it even happens in the summertime.**

**All regular disclaimers apply. I do not own.**

**Here, finally, is Chapter 7.**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 7<strong>

Nick had barely pulled up to the house and Rosalee was running outside to meet him.

"Nice dress," Nick teased to lighten the tension. "Red. I'm sure he loved that." Rosalee just stared at him. She was not exactly amused, but she remembered that Nick was doing her a big favor and decided not to retort.

"Thank you for being here," she said sincerely. "I appreciate it. He's just really worrying me – I've never seen him like this before."

"No problem," Nick said as Rosalee led him up to the door. "Where is he? You said you didn't want to leave him alone." Rosalee flushed in embarrassment but concealed that emotion with aggravation.

"He's sleeping now," she said. "Stepping right outside the door doesn't count as leaving, especially when he's out cold." Nick couldn't help but smile at her obvious frustration.

"It's going to be fine, Rosalee," he said. "Go on. I'll be fine here."

"Great," she said. "Look, if he starts seeing things, calm him down quick. Otherwise he might transform and try to attack you or himself."

"Got it," Nick said. "Rosalee, stop worrying so much. He'll be fine. I've got this." Rosalee stared deeply into his eyes. She trusted him. She had no choice but to trust him now.

"Okay," She said finally. "Thank you, Nick."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Just go get whatever will fix him." Rosalee nodded once and headed for the road, realizing belatedly that she did not have a car. Nick noticed too. He raised his eyebrows at her as if to say "So now what?"

"Do you… do you think he'll mind if I…?" She asked, faltering. It seemed like such a bad idea when she voiced it.

"I usually like to live by the policy of 'ask for forgiveness, not permission,'" he told her, understanding her meaning exactly. "Do you know where his keys are?"

"Yeah, he set them down as soon as he got in," she answered.

"Well, go on then," Nick urged. "It's not like he's in any condition to drive anyway. I'm sure he won't mind." Reassured by this, Rosalee stepped through the door, grabbed the keys to Monroe's vintage bug, and left again.

"I need to get out of this by the way," she said, gesturing to her dress.

"Why?" Nick asked. "Not comfortable for playing doctor?" Rosalee resisted the strong urge to roll her eyes at him.

"No, Nick," she said calmly. "It's not that. This color… in his condition, no matter how much he likes it, no matter how much he cares about me, it _will_ set him off."

"Oh. Right," he said soberly, remembering the incident that had caused him to even meet Monroe in the first place. Wanting nothing more than for his friend to be healed, he urged her off by saying, "I'll see you soon, okay?"

"See you," she said. "And thanks again." With that, she climbed into the car and took off down the road.

She stopped first at her house and changed her clothes, glad to be out of the restricting formalwear, but also relieved to not be wearing the very color that might cause her death. She grabbed a bag in which she shoved a book and some personal items that hadn't fit in her purse. Then, she headed to the shop, thinking of only Monroe suffering as she drove, in order to keep her on mind on the task at hand.

Once inside the shop, she shut and locked the door before going completely insane, running around like mad, searching for ingredients in the wrong places before realizing she didn't even know what she was searching for yet. She sat down hard on the stool behind the counter and took a deep breath to calm herself. She usually wasn't so panicky with patients. She knew this job required a cool head and steady hands, but for some reason, having it be Monroe who was sick, who had his entire life in her hands right then, made her more frantic, more anxious, and more confused about her feelings.

She forced her tears to stay away and pulled a piece of paper out from behind the counter. She took a pen from the infamous pen holder on the countertop, wincing as it touched her skin and actually burned with the memory of Monroe handing it to her, and began to compose a list of all the ingredients she needed to create the remedies. When her thoughts were organized at last, she got a plastic bag and systematically gathered the items from the shop. Her face was blank, devoid of all emotions, until she reached up and included the most painful ingredient for the first stage of rash treatment in the bag – chili pepper & seeds. At this, she cringed, thinking of how much it was going to burn him and how much agony was going to ensue. She could practically hear the screaming, the begging and pleading for the hellish torture to end…. She didn't know how many screams she'd be able to endure before she'd go mad with anguish brought on by his tortured cries.

This wasn't good – she was beginning to lose her nerve. In fact, she was becoming so anxious she was thinking of making Nick do it. She bit her lip as she added camphor and sage to the bag and double checked that she had everything she needed. She remembered to grab her own mortar and pestle and a few sets of latex gloves as she didn't want to spread infection by taking chances with what other germs might or might not be on her hands. That was, after all, how most Blutbaden died of Lupofiebre.

Rosalee checked, double checked, and triple checked her list. When she was absolutely sure she had everything she needed, she grabbed Monroe's keys, shut off the light, and left the store, relocking the door behind her. She climbed into the car and headed back to the house, hoping Nick had been able to keep Monroe safe and under control. That's when she realized with a groan that she'd forgotten to warn him about the rash.

Meanwhile, at Monroe's house, Nick was having problems of his own. He had walked into Monroe's bedroom and found the Blutbad lying on his back, uncovered and bare-chested, with some sort of horrible blotchy inflammation bubbling and popping across his torso. His face was contorted in severe pain, jaw clenched tightly. Nick had been horrified. Rosalee had definitely failed to mention this, he thought as he went over to examine the ugly-looking rash. The angry red and white pustules were popping at random intervals, spurting some awful, bloody fluid. But that wasn't even the worst part. Nick swore he saw the white bone of one of Monroe's ribs showing through a tiny but deep hole in the skin. He couldn't tell for certain if that was the case or if he was just seeing things, what with all the redness and the blood, but the more he looked at it, the more that seemed to be the only logical explanation.

Nick was suddenly flooded with feelings he didn't know he had for his dear friend. The rash was nasty and looked absolutely excruciating. He wasn't sure how Monroe stayed asleep – he knew if he'd had something like that, he'd be screaming his head off in pain. Carefully, without thinking, he reached down to grip his friend's hand. Suddenly, in a flash, Monroe had grabbed hold of Nick's hand before Nick could even react. His eyes had flown open and he stared around the room confusedly for a long moment before locking eyes with Nick.

"Nick?" He asked, surprisingly alert.

"Hey, Monroe," Nick replied. "What the hell happened to _you_? You look awful."

"No time to explain," Monroe said breathlessly. "Nick, there are reapers here."

"Wait… what?" The young Grimm asked, bewildered.

"Shh," the Blutbad said urgently, sitting up with the slightest wince. "The reapers will hear you."

"The… what?" Nick asked bewildered, looking around. If there were reapers in Monroe's house, they'd both end up dead, as Nick didn't have any weapons with which to protect himself, and Monroe was currently out of commission.

"Reapers," Monroe moaned softly. "They're… they're here."

"Monroe, what are you talking about?" Nick asked, starting to freak out a little bit himself. Monroe was convinced there were murderers in his house, but the two of them were utterly alone. He wasn't making any sense. Were these reapers invisible, he wondered? "There's no one here but us."

"That's what they want you to think," Monroe hissed softly. "Where's Rosalee?"

"She went to get medicine for you," Nick explained gently. "That's why I'm here. Dude, are you alright? You seem a bit… spacey." And that's when he noticed the wild but dull and glazed look in Monroe's eyes. He understood immediately. Monroe was not seeing straight. He was having one of the hallucinations Rosalee had been worried about. And he was hallucinating reapers.

"Oh boy," Nick murmured to himself. This was about to get ugly.

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><p><strong>AN: So that's it for now. More to come. In the meantime, please let me know what you thought! Reviews are lovely and appreciated!**

**~PG22**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hey guys! I'm so sorry this took so long. I took a break from writing fanfic over the summer as the muse died and I wanted to work on my novel, but I'm back now and I'm so happy to be! This update is shorter than the others, but I hope you like it anyway. I'm trying to work on shorter chapters and updating more often so the project doesn't seem so huge. **

**Who else wants to see that kiss this season? Ahh, can't wait.**

**Thanks to all of you who have reviewed so kindly and faithfully. This one's for you!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

Rosalee pushed the speed limit, the small hand on the speedometer crossing the little 60 silently and easily. Typically she did not like driving fast. Her motto was, drive slowly and safely and get there, or drive fast and run the risk of not getting there at all. This, however, was an extenuating circumstance. The sack of medicinal goods she had collected rattled on the seat beside her, but she barely gave it a passing glance.

_Hold on, Monroe_, she pleaded silently, hoping beyond hope that he wasn't hallucinating and that Nick truly did have things under control.

Meanwhile, Nick was trying to calm Monroe down.

"Monroe, look around you, okay?" He said in a soothing voice, moving closer to the bedside and resting a protective hand on his shoulder. "There are no reapers, and if there were, I can just cut off a few more heads. Just lie down, you're not thinking straight." But Monroe would not give up.

"They've found where I live," he muttered anxiously. "They know you're here. They're after me. They're angry." Nick worriedly brought his hand to Monroe's forehead. It was hot, much too hot to be safe.

Finally, _finally_, Rosalee pulled into Monroe's driveway, cutting the engine on the bug and grabbing her bag.

"Monroe, you're hallucinating, just calm down," Nick said worriedly. Thankfully, before any real mess could start, he heard a door slam outside. "Hey, hear that?" He asked. "Rosalee's back. She'll scare the reapers away-" But this plan backfired. At the sound of her name, Monroe jolted back up, eyes wild with terror.

"They'll hurt her!" He cried out. "They'll kill her!" He started to get up, but Nick stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He knew he'd have to indulge Monroe's hallucination or risk a very dangerous situation. So he decided to play along.

"Look, I'm going to go out there," he said. "I've taken two down single-handedly already, and this time, I'll send more than just their heads straight back where they belong. Okay?" Monroe was still wide-eyed but nodded, this idea seeming like a good one in his hazy mind. "There's just one thing though," Nick continued craftily, using every ounce of cunning he had in him. "If they hear you, we'll both be dead. So I need you to lie down and be quiet, okay?" Monroe blinked at him.

"Don't be stupid, Nick," Monroe said anxiously. "I'm going to help." He started to stand.

"Monroe, really, that's not a good-" Nick started, but thankfully, the front door slammed and suddenly Rosalee burst through the bedroom door, changed and cleaned up, carrying a plastic grocery bag. She took in the scene in seconds, quickly analyzing how to deal with it.

"Monroe?" She asked softly, glancing at his chest and wincing, noticing for the first time just how horrible it looked. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"Rosalee," he breathed in surprise, squinting as if that would help him see her better through his foggy brain. "How did you get past them?"

"Who?" Rosalee asked carefully, shooting Nick an anxious glance. She was horrified that it had actually happened, but not surprised at all. And she was grateful, eternally grateful, that Nick had been able to keep him relatively calm. "The reapers?" Nick started as if to say, "What are you doing?" But Rosalee silenced him with a look that told him plainly to shut up and let her handle it. Nick remained silent, watching. Monroe nodded, horrified.

"I taught them a lesson," she lied easily, trying to sound tough. "They won't be bothering you anymore." Monroe stared at her, half dazed, half in awe.

"You… took down… reapers…?" He asked, not seeming to grasp the concept. Rosalee looked down at herself, realizing she was spotless and that she'd be lucky if he accepted even half of her lie. Fortunately, he was too out of it to realize. He nodded mutely, in a sort of trance. She took advantage of this.

"I brought medicine," she said, smoothly changing the subject. She set the bag down on his desk and walked over to him. Carefully placing her hands on his upper arms, which were slicked with sweat, she guided him back towards the bed. "Looks like Nick took good care of you while I was gone, huh?" She kept her voice soft and soothing and her tone calming, though internally she was screaming with worry. She wanted to shake him hard and snap him out of this, but she knew that wasn't a good idea.

He allowed her to sit him down on the bed. Slowly, she pushed him down so he was lying on the pillow. She then pulled the covers up over his legs, stopping just at his torso to keep him from bleeding on everything. Suddenly, he seemed to snap out of his trance, as if by magic.

"Rosalee?" He asked softly, blinking blearily. "What… what happened?"

"Shh," she chided. "It was nothing. You were seeing things." He pulled his knees up to his chest and circled his arms around them despite the protest he got from every one of his joints and the fiery rash on his chest. From this ludicrously fetal position, he fought back against the sudden nausea and pain sweeping over him at regular, agonizing intervals, over and over, causing a pattern of anguish the Blutbad could barely describe. This was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before, the hurt, the discomfort, the excruciating pain that had been able to snap him out of delirium for the moment and bring him back to earth. He closed his eyes and felt a sharp, abrupt stab of pain in his head that racked his body and almost made him pass out or vomit on the spot. He clenched his teeth tightly to keep from crying out. Another wave of pain, and his body twitched involuntarily.

If he had been sweating before, it was nothing compared to now. He was lying curled up in a tight, nearly impenetrable ball, pain cycling through his body at regular, terrifying, painful intervals. Each time the ache would subside and he'd try to relax slightly, another onslaught of hurt would arrive. Meanwhile, as this was happening, sores were continuously bursting on his body and splattering his fitted sheet with bright red blood and thick liquid pus. He was positively drenched in sweat, which made him shiver like crazy. The tiny droplets trickled onto his chest and made the open sores burn and sting as though he had poured acid in each. He couldn't open his mouth to speak or cry out. Each time fresh batches of tears would gather in his eyes from the pain, he made sure to subdue them and swallow them back down, but he was coming to the very end of his self-control. He knew what that meant. He would surely go Blutbad very soon.

Rosalee saw how he suddenly changed from hallucinations to agony, and instantly became nervous. She knelt down beside his bed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with a tenderness that came from years of experience and an emotion that was pinching in her chest and felt like a vice.

"Monroe?" She asked. He turned his bloodshot, pain-filled eyes to her and let out a soft whimper. Suddenly, he gasped and stiffened as a fresh wave of agony attacked him with a vengeance. The Fuchsbau placed her cool palm on Monroe's sweat-dampened forehead. She felt his trembling from beneath her hand. Gently, she felt around, turning her hand back and pressing it to Monroe's cheek.

"Oh, Monroe," she murmured. "You are sweltering. It got worse. How do you feel?" As she spoke, she carefully prodded at the sides of his neck with her gentle, lithe fingers. His lymph nodes were definitely swollen, she felt, which meant his body was trying to fight off the infection. That was good. He barely flinched. He clenched his teeth to avoid opening his mouth; he was afraid of what might come out if he did.

Rosalee realized what a stupid question that was. Obviously he was feeling awful. Her heart went out to him. She needed to get him medicated, and fast. She got to her feet, her hand gently caressing his cheek and mussing his already unruly hair.

"It's okay, Monroe," she soothed. It's all gonna be okay." With one final caress, she pulled herself away from him and went over to the bag, pulling out all kinds of ingredients and her mortar and pestle. She deftly threw bits of this herb and that plant into the grinder without having to measure a thing. She began to mash it into a fine powder with a vengeance, as if it owed her money or worse, a life.

"Nick," she said, quickly enlisting his help. "Go to the kitchen and bring me back a pot of water. Then go put one on to boil, please." She was concentrating hard now. In the back of her mind she realized she still needed to tell him about the rash and he still owed her a story about reapers beating Monroe up, but that could wait for later. Now getting that rash and his fever under control was the most important thing.

"Rosalee, I-" Nick started. He was going to say he was busy, had other things to do, and wasn't sure if being the personal assistant to a healer was going to fit into his agenda. But then Rosalee gave him a look. It wasn't a pleading look exactly, but more of a sad, anxious, he's-your-friend-and-so-am-I-and-I-kind-of-need-your-help sort of look that made Nick take another glance at the sick Blutbad. He looked miserable. And he was always willing to do things for him, Nick reminded himself, no matter the cost or time commitment. He nodded once at Rosalee.

"I'm on it," he said, and headed in the direction of the kitchen. She said nothing, just listening to him go.

_Thank you_, she thought to herself, smiling a little. Monroe would be fine. There was no other option with a Grimm _and_ a Fuchsbau on the job.

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><p><strong>AN: That's all for now. A lot of angst to come in the next few chapters, which will be out very very soon. Until then, please review. Your reviews got me back on track, and I always love to hear what you think! Thanks!**

**~PG22**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: So after the preview for next week's episode and how amazing it's going to be because Monrosalee and sick and kiss, I decided I needed to do another update. So here I am!**

**I wanted some Rosalee/Nick interaction, so that's what you get here. Sorry it's so short!**

**Regular disclaimers apply.**

**Spoilers for parts of season 1 if you haven't seen it.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

"Stay here, Monroe," she said gently, pressing a kiss to his feverish brow. "I'll be right back." Monroe didn't even speak. He barely nodded, starting to doze off despite the intense pain racking his body. He was exhausted from the toll the disease was taking on him. Rosalee left the room reluctantly and brought the ground ingredients to the kitchen, where she found Nick at the sink filling a pot with water.

"Thank you," she said, taking the dry ingredients and dumping them into the pot. She then brought out the rest of the herbs and began mixing those in methodically as well.

"No problem," Nick said, eyeing her curiously before going to put another pan of water on to boil. "What is that?"

"Stage one of treatment," she explained, biting her lip as she finished adding ingredients. "Did you use hot water?"

"Yes," he said. "What's stage one?"

"The painful stage," she said. "It's supposed to stimulate healing of the skin. It's extremely excruciating." She pulled out another pot, knowing exactly where to find it. "Fill this with cold water please." Nick stared at her.

"Excruciating," he repeated.

"Yes," she said defensively. "The materials used burn, but they clean and heal the wounds. There's a stage two, which is why I need the cold water. That soothes the rash and cools it down."

"So what does he have to do?" Nick asked, watching Rosalee stir the pot. "Drink that?"

"No," she said. "I have to apply this directly to the rash."

"Yeah, speaking of which, nice detail you forgot to mention," he said sarcastically.

"I'm sorry, Nick," she said. "Lupofiebre is something everyone in the Wesen world knows about, and I forgot you were new to it."

"Yeah, well, that was a nice little surprise," he said, watching her crush mint leaves and add them to the cold water.

"Again, it wasn't the first thing I thought to tell you," she said. "You handled it fine. You kept him from hurting himself or others and I really appreciate that."

"No problem," Nick said. "But… what _is_ that?"

"The rash?" She asked, adding liberal amounts of camphor to the solution with the care of a seasoned chemist. Her concentration never left her work, though she was still able to explain things to Nick. "It's the most striking and unique characteristic of Lupofiebre. Basically it's a fever rash that crops up during the disease. It's painful and causes a lot of the delirium and hallucinations. It's also the most dangerous part of the disease because most Blutbaden are stubborn as hell and won't go for treatment so other diseases set in due to the open wounds. Thankfully we don't have to worry about that seeing as I'm treating him."

"Oh," Nick said. "That sounds particularly horrible."

"It is," she said. "My mother used to treat Lupofiebre patients sometimes. The ones who would swallow their damn pride and drag themselves in. I've seen the disease in multiple stages and no matter where it is in progression, it's always so… horrible." She silently added oatmeal to the mixture.

"By the way," she said, not looking at him, "you still owe me an explanation as to why Monroe had a run-in with reapers."

"Right," Nick said. "I should've known you weren't going to let that go."

"He never told me," Rosalee confided softly, stirring the medication slowly until it gained consistency. "I've known him for months and he never said a word."

"I'm sure he didn't want to worry you," Nick explained carefully. "It's probably something he didn't want to put on your shoulders. I haven't heard him talk about it since the incident either now that I think about it."

"Tell me what happened," Rosalee said simply, setting down the spoon and staring Nick down. It wasn't a demand exactly, but pretty close to one. Nick did not need to be told twice.

"It was… a while back," Nick said. "I don't have all the details but what I do know is Monroe got a call to work on a clock and when he got there a bunch of reapers roughed him up really badly and vandalized his car. He claimed it was because they didn't like the two of us messing with the status quo. I was going to stop asking him for help to take him out of danger since this was the second time he'd been hurt because of me, but he refused to let that happen." Rosalee was silent for a long time, letting that sink in. Inside, she was seething, wanting nothing more than to punish the men who did this to her Monroe. She wanted to slip nightshade into their wine or a cobra into their beds and make them pay with their lives. Externally, she was the picture of calm, for Nick's sake mostly.

"He's brave," she said finally, turning back to the bowl. "And maybe a little bit crazy. But brave."

"That's why we love him," Nick responded coolly. He wondered how it was that she could take it so easily but decided not to dwell too much on it.

"I need to go get these on him," Rosalee said finally when both stages of treatment were mixed up. The first and most painful stage was a cloudy, red-tinted liquid. The second stage was a clear gel. Rosalee quickly added a few things to the boiling water on the stovetop. "It's your choice now. You can either come watch me torture the man I love, or you can stay here and watch this so it doesn't spill over." Nick barely batted an eye at her "man I love" comment. In fact, privately, his only thought was _finally_. However, there were more pressing matters at hand and he pushed that thought aside quickly.

"Torture him?" Nick asked. "Rosalee, really, it can't be _that_ bad."

"It _is_ that bad, Nick," she responded harshly. "This treatment is so painful it used to be used by the seven royal families as a method of torture on political prisoners and captured opponents." Nick raised his eyebrows.

"Really?" He asked.

"Yes," she said, suddenly feeling close to tears. "I've seen one scarred victim in my life. It's… horrible. They figured out that the treatment was more excruciating than the disease itself, like rubbing salt in a wound. They would slash their victims and then pour this in and watch them suffer. Over and over again."

"Hey," Nick said, noticing how emotional she was suddenly becoming. "Relax. I'm sure he'll understand you're not trying to torture him. And if it makes you that uncomfortable, _I'll_ do it." But Rosalee shook her head.

"It would be worse coming from a Grimm," she said. "I don't care how close you two are, the second he realizes that a Grimm is causing him that much pain, he'll lose his head and wolf-out, and then we'll all be in trouble. It has to be me." She didn't look happy about this prospect at all, but Nick couldn't argue with her logic.

She reached into his cabinet and grabbed a medicine dropper. She then grabbed the big pot containing stage one of treatment.

"Grab stage two if you're coming," she instructed. "I'll need you to come turn the water off in about five minutes or so too, okay?" Nick nodded, picking up the other bowl and following her. She took one detour to the bathroom and found the two softest cloths she could, ones that weren't nubby or coarse, before reentering the bedroom with Nick at her heels.

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><p><strong>AN: So it's more of a transitional chapter. Hooray! Reviews are wonderful, as always, and are much appreciated. Thanks for reading and see you soon with the next part!**

**~PG22**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Sorry it took so long my lovely Grimmsters but the climax is finally here!**

**Just a few quick things before we go:**

**1. Okay, seriously, a few weeks ago, did anyone else notice how close that episode's plot was to this one? I mean, I don't claim to have written an episode of Grimm indirectly, but I really want to know how two minds can think up the same general disease, with a rash and the violence and the fever and all that jazz. I swear, if they read this, it would make my life. To have inspired an episode for a television show... wow. Otherwise I guess great (gruesome) minds do think alike. Still exciting.**

**2. Thank you all for bearing with me and being so patient. Life is coming at me hard and fast recently, so I'm updating when I can. Thanks for continuing to follow the story even on my hiatuses. I love you all and appreciate all your kind reviews and the fact that you still take time to come read this.**

**3. Usual disclaimers apply.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

She set the pot carefully on his nightstand and gestured for Nick to place his on the desk at the other side of the room. She then moved close to Monroe's side. His eyes were closed and he was on his back, eyes squinted shut, face contorted in pain, chest heaving, and face coated with a thin sheen of sweat, a sweat that darkened his hair and beaded on his brow, sliding silently down his face. She wondered if he had finally managed to fall asleep, but a soft whimper from him told her this was not so. She dragged his desk chair over to the side of the bed and sat down, the pot in her lap, one of the cloths floating atop the liquid, eyedropper in hand.

"Monroe?" Rosalee said, and her voice cracked under pressure of her nerves. "I-I've got your medicine. Are you familiar with the Lupofiebre treatment?" He opened his eyes blearily and nodded once. He had heard from other Blutbaden how painful it was. At this point, however, he didn't think anything could hurt worse than the rash itself. His chest burned as though on fire. Every nerve ending in his body tingled with pain.

"Well, that's good," she said. Her hands were shaking, causing ripples in the water. "At least it won't come as a surprise. Okay. Well, just relax." She was trying really hard not to start crying already. "I'm going to tell you a story, Monroe," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's about a Blutbad like you. A Blutbad that has Lupofiebre. Just focus on the story, alright?" She slowly and deliberately filled the medicine dropper with the liquid. She held it up in front of her eyes and, cringing, held the tip over Monroe's chest. "Once upon a time…," she squeaked, squeezing the black rubber bottom of the dropper and releasing the medicine onto Monroe's open wounds.

His first instinct was to scream, which he did. Loudly. It felt like she had poured rock salt and boiling oil in his already aching wounds. Cutting the scream off, he lost his head and transformed, snarling at her, muscles contracting as if ready to pounce at any moment. She had been expecting this, however, and glared at him, shifting into her fuchsbau form and growling right back at him.

_Monroe, calm down, _she said, speaking to him in the Wesen language that was familiar to both of them. _It's just me. Me, Rosalee. I'm going to help you!_ Monroe didn't answer. Rosalee cringed and squirted another dose of the medicine into his wounds. He shouted again in pain and lunged for her. Luckily, in that moment, Nick's hand found Monroe's arm, gripped his bicep like a vice, and held fast, pushing him back to a lying position.

"Easy, Monroe," he said gently, keeping a firm hand against Monroe's arm. "You don't want to hurt Rosalee. You'd never be able to live with yourself if you did." As Nick spoke, Rosalee shifted back into her human form and continued to apply the medicine in generous doses to Monroe's rash with tears in her eyes. Monroe writhed and growled and yelped, shooting up once again to attack Rosalee, all traces of his humanity gone from his eyes. Nick caught his hands deftly.

"Monroe, look at me," he said. "Rosalee's just trying to help! It'll be over soon. It's just Rosalee. You're fine, Monroe."

She continued to apply the medicine as this happened, her hands trembling so badly she spilled multiple times on his sheets. She was scared. In one swift movement, at any second, Monroe could rip out her throat and she'd be powerless to stop it, weighed down by the pot and unwilling to hurt him while he was in such a state by fighting back.

She must have squeezed some into a very sensitive spot, for just then Monroe threw his head back and howled in agony before transforming back into a human and going limp, shuddering and writhing from the pain, only half-conscious.

"Monroe?" Nick asked worriedly, looking down at his friend and then over at the apothecary. "Rosalee, what's happening?"

"He's not angry anymore," Rosalee explained, her voice quavering. "Just in a _lot _of pain. He can't fight anymore. I must have hit a trigger spot." Nick was quite confused, but decided to drop it. Clearly Monroe had lost his drive to fight – from the pain perhaps? Was this the equivalent of being "broken" when tortured by the royal families, he wondered? He looked down, his hand still on Monroe's shoulder. The Blutbad was squirming, his eyes clenched shut, a few stray tears sliding silently down his cheeks. His breath came in short puffs, and he was whimpering softly and yelping every so often.

"Stop," he groaned. "Please. Have mercy on me." Nick looked over at Rosalee, but quickly looked away when he realized she was crying too. He felt awkward, like he was invading a private moment.

It was breaking Rosalee's heart to hear Monroe like this, to see him like this, to know how much pain she was causing him.

"Shh," she said. "It's just me, Monroe. I'm not doing this to hurt you."

"Oh God," he moaned. "Oh God please. Please! I'll do anything, say anything, tell you whatever you want."

"Hallucinations?" Nick guessed.

"Yes," Rosalee said, not meeting his gaze. Her voice was an octave higher than normal and cracked with emotion. "Just a few more drops, Monroe, that's all. Just a few more. We're almost there." He screamed again, the sound loud, long, and guttural, and he tried to jerk away, but it was as though something was holding him in place. Nick wondered about this until Rosalee said "He's weak. Too weak to move. That's normal."

"Normal. Okay," Nick said sarcastically. Rosalee ignored him and squeezed the remainder of the medicine onto the rash. That final squirt did it: Monroe screamed again and went unconscious, the pain too much to bear.

"Woah!" Nick cried in alarm. "What's happening?"

"Fainted from the pain," Rosalee whispered, wiping the tears from her eyes. She took the cloth and gingerly blotted at the excess potion, clearing it from his chest. "He'll wake up in a little bit. Thank you," she added, "for keeping him down. He could have killed me, you know."

"He wouldn't have," Nick said. "He was holding back. He was fighting to keep himself."

"I believe that," Rosalee said and handed Nick the empty pot, taking the one full of the cool medicated gel onto her lap and applying a generous amount to Monroe's chest with a washcloth. The effect was instantaneous: Monroe's face immediately lost all tension and he breathed a sigh of relief. She continued to slather his chest with the ointment she had concocted in a slow, ritual fashion.

"He really likes you, you know," Nick said awkwardly. Rosalee looked up from her work and offered a small smile, one that only gently raised the corners of her lips.

"Yeah," she said thoughtfully. "Yeah. I do know." She finished what she was doing in silence, sighing in relief as she watched the rash begin to scab over and heal.

"He's going to be fatigued when he wakes up," she said. "But thankfully it'll just be like a normal flu now. I can give him an herbal remedy for it. He should be better soon."

"That's good," Nick said, feeling relieved. "That was… really nasty."

"That's Lupofiebre for you," Rosalee said with a sigh. "But look. It's already healing." She gestured to Monroe's chest. Nick came in closer for a better look. Sure enough, most of the gashes were already sealed with a thin shell or completely gone.

"Wow," Nick said. "I wonder if my ancestors knew anything about this."

"They probably did," Rosalee said. "This would kill Blutbaden more quickly and efficiently than any of your family's weapons could."

"Sounds… morbid," Nick said.

"It was," she responded, going back to her soothing work. She looked at his features, slack and relaxed now, his breathing regular, his heartbeat back to normal. Rosalee couldn't help but smile. He was going to be okay. The back of her hand found his cheek and stroked it gently.

"He gonna wake up anytime soon?" Nick asked.

"In a few minutes, probably," she answered. "Want to stick around? He won't be hallucinating reapers anymore." Nick smiled.

"Sure," he said. "Of course. Can I help with something?" Rosalee pondered that for a second.

"Do you know how to brew tea?" She asked.

"Like… medicinal herbal tea like you make, or just normal tea?" Nick asked.

"Just regular, normal tea," Rosalee clarified with a smile.

"As long as you don't mind a tea bag," he said with a shrug. Rosalee chuckled.

"He'll get a kick out of that," she said with a smile. "Yes, that will be fine. If you could go do that, it would be great."

"Will do," Nick said. Just as he was crossing the threshold of Monroe's room, Rosalee called him back and handed him both pots, now empty.

"Please?" She asked with a charming grin. Nick smiled at her and nodded once, turning to go. The fuchsbau followed him out, going as far as the bathroom, where she soaked a new cloth in lukewarm water, wrung it out, and brought it back to the bedroom. She used it to sponge off Monroe's sweaty face and neck to help soothe the last traces of fever. He was already beginning to look better, some color returned to his cheeks and the unhealthy heat his body had been radiating suddenly cooled.

That had gone much better than she had expected, she decided. Monroe hadn't tried to kill her. That was certainly an accomplishment if nothing else. The most dangerous part was behind them. Now all that was left to do was make him feel better.

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><p><strong>AN: Final chapter is next! I hope you all have enjoyed this journey - I know I certainly have. Loose ends will be tied up, and the Mary Anne plot will be brought up again. I'm so excited to be finishing this. Hope you liked this part. As always, reviews are wonderful and cherished, so feel free to leave me one!**

**Ciao,**

**~PG22**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hi everyone! I'm finally back with the last installment. It took far longer than I expected and I want to apologize immensely for keeping you waiting. I hope I do it justice and tie up all the loose ends here. My only excuse is that life got really crazy all of a sudden - not so much busy, but absolutely crazy. I took a break from writing for a while and then actually ended up finishing my first novel if you can believe that. But I'm back now for as long as life allows.**

**Anyway, I wanted you all to have this last piece. I'm not exactly happy with the way it turned out, but that's probably because I'm sad that this story is finally ending. It's been a great run with all of you and thanks so much for all your support. **

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

**I will not keep you waiting any longer! Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 11<strong>

Monroe blinked awake blearily to something cool and wet gently rubbing his face. He turned his head slightly, his body feeling like he'd just been through severe torture and war, and found her face. Suddenly, the memories of everything that had just happened flooded back to him in an instant. He was suddenly horrified.

"Rosalee?" He croaked. The girl smiled, glad he'd finally come to.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm here. What's up? How are you feeling?" Monroe could not fathom it. The last time he'd been taken by the disease, someone had died. This time, he had almost been sure Rosalee would die too, at his hand. After he had transformed, everything had gone dark and he had been sure she was going to be killed. But here she was, alive and well and mopping the sweat off his face with a cool cloth.

"What-," he started to ask, but then stopped. All he remembered was transforming and then being tortured for information about Nick. He closed his eyes wearily. "My head hurts." Rosalee stifled a giggle. If that was the worst of their problems, she'd be quite glad.

"I can only imagine," she said, grinning. "How about your chest, how does that feel?"

"Better," he said, shuddering to remember the pain he had been in just moments before. "Much better. All thanks to you."

"Good," the fuchsbau said gently. "I'm really glad. And no need to thank me," she added. "It was my pleasure." She gazed into his eyes. Despite looking haggard and wan, she was taken at how much life his face and eyes contained, where just moments before he had been completely dull and almost lifeless. Monroe meanwhile studied her face. There was nothing indicating a struggle, nothing indicating that he had done anything to harm her. It was a miracle.

Nick walked back in then, carrying a steaming mug and effectively ruining the moment. "Alright, if you've got it under control here, I've actually gotta head to a crime scene," he said, setting the mug down by Monroe's bedside and grinning to realize his friend was awake and seemed to be doing well before continuing. "Just got a call from the station. Three dead on Prescott. Could be Wesen related by the description." Rosalee smiled and nodded.

"I think I can take it from here, Nick, thank you," she said, smiling up at him, momentarily hovering with the cloth just above Monroe's features. Nick grinned.

"After what I just saw, I think you can too," he praised, a hint of teasing in his voice. He went over to clap Monroe on the shoulder. "Feel better. I'll be back as soon as I figure out what's up." Monroe nodded.

"Bye, Nick," Rosalee said. "Thanks for the help." The Grimm-cop smiled and left the room with a final wave. Rosalee then turned her attention back to Monroe and continued to wipe his face with her cloth.

"God, 'm really glad I didn't hurt you, Rosalee," he stated, seemingly out of nowhere after a suitable interval. "I lost my head and I was so worried…."

"Shh," the fuchsbau soothed. "It's okay, Monroe. I knew you weren't going to the second you transformed and didn't rip my head off. You were restraining yourself. Though how you managed to do that, I'll never know. That took an awful amount of brain power."

"Well… it's lucky I have an awful lot of brain, you know?" He joked weakly, suppressing a breathy cough.

"Mm," Rosalee responded with a tender grin as she gently pushed the hair back off his forehead. "You're a strong man, Monroe, for someone who's lost so much." She was no stranger to the stories of his losses, from friends who had died recently, to family who had died long ago. The Blutbad squirmed uncomfortably at the mention of it, however.

"I tend to learn from… loss," he said, his voice growing weaker still as memories of his last bout of Lupofiebre fully flooded his mind and he was hit by the crippling shame and guilt once more. He swallowed hard. Rosalee picked up on his anxiety almost immediately.

"Monroe?" She asked. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," he lied, to spare her the horror and also to spare himself the grief and embarrassment. "I'm… I'm fine, Rosalee."

"Okay," she said softly, not sure she wanted to press. There was a brief, pregnant pause, and then Monroe sighed heavily in defeat.

"Alright, that's a lie," he murmured. "I'm just… thinking about something that happened… a long time ago."

"Okay," Rosalee repeated, this time uncertainly. "I'm not sure I'm quite following."

"I had Lupofiebre once before," he confessed, speaking quickly for fear of losing his nerve. "Survived by a miracle, but not unscathed."

"No one survives it unscathed, Monroe," Rosalee said gently, setting her hand lovingly over his.

"No, no, I don't mean physically," he said, sighing deeply and trying to ignore the pangs of sorrow and remorse. "I mean… there was… a little girl…." Rosalee raised her eyebrows. It was unfortunate, but she was pretty sure she understood now what he was trying to get at. She did not gasp or judge him, however. She simply gazed into his eyes, trying to convey to him that she understood.

"I'm listening," she said.

"It's awful," he prefaced it. "I'm so… ashamed. I still hate myself."

"It's okay if you don't want to say," she told him. "I understand what you're trying to tell me. But I'll listen, if you want to talk about it."

He wanted to. Oh, did he want to. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to get this terrible deed off his chest, tell someone who cared about him how awful he truly was. He also, somehow, wanted to be told that it was going to be okay. He wanted reassurance that people weren't going to run off the second they heard of this. It was a stupid thing to want – he knew it was entirely impossible for people to reassure him he wasn't the monster he knew deep down he was. Still, it would definitely feel good to tell the truth. So, for the first time in years, be it now because of the heat and haze of fever or the relief that he hadn't repeated the offense this time, he opened up to someone about Mary Anne.

Rosalee listened calmly to the whole story. She was no stranger to that life herself, so she could definitely relate to him. The life of a Wesen, especially a young one, was constantly dark, violent, and spattered with blood. But she also knew that it was possible to change, to reform and start anew, renouncing that way of life, just as she and Monroe had.

"So you were holding yourself back… because you remembered how it felt to lose control with her?" Rosalee asked. It made sense. However, Monroe shook his head.

"Because of her, because of you…," he told her, staring up at the ceiling and refusing to meet her eyes. He sighed heavily. "Because I'm not a killer and never want to be again."

"Things could have gotten really ugly there, Monroe," she said, brushing his bangs aside gingerly. "You were keeping yourself calm and restrained. Nick and I both felt that. And not once during the whole thing did I feel unsafe. You are not a killer, Monroe, and you never were. Mary Anne's death was accidental."

"And avoidable," he muttered, filled with self-loathing.

"And caused by the beast that took over your head," she argued, raising her volume just slightly to overpower his negativity, self-blame, and sadness. "You never meant to hurt her. I know that. And deep down, you do too. But you won't forgive yourself and let go because it feels like then you'll forget and her death will be meaningless." To his sudden surprised look, she said, "I'm no stranger to that feeling, Monroe. There are things in my life I'm not proud of doing and that I regret. But I had to learn how to forgive myself and work to become better because of it. I know you. Had you been in your right mind, you wouldn't have lashed out. It was an accident and one I know you will never let ever happen again." Monroe finally looked at her.

"You believe that?" He asked tiredly.

"With every last bit of myself, I do," she affirmed. "You're good, Monroe. Better than so many who _aren't_ like us." Though he still didn't believe it, it felt so good to hear someone say. And it felt even better because it was coming from her.

"Thank you," he said earnestly. "For everything."

"Of course," she said. "You're always welcome." She bent over and kissed his cheek. "Now, why don't you get some sleep? I'm pretty sure you'll feel even better tomorrow. The worst is over."

"Alright," he agreed. "Sounds good to me." He was feeling rather tired at the moment. He settled back in, and Rosalee gently pulled the blankets back up over his chest, sure now that the rubbing of fabric on his chest would not cause any more blisters or irritation. She then began to stroke his hair lovingly.

"Goodnight, Monroe," she said, confident he would not wake up again until morning after what they had both been through during the day.

"'Night, Rose," he murmured languidly, closing his eyes and drifting off into a deep and healing sleep. Beneath the blankets a single, final red droplet of blood slid down like a tear off his chest and landed silently on his sheets.

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><p><strong>AN: So that's it! Thank you all so much for everything and I'm so sorry it took so long for such a mediocre part to come out. I love each and every one of you who have taken this journey with me, and also those of you who have come now to read. All my love, and hope you will all come join me for my next one! 3**

**As always, feel free to review.**

**~PG22**


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